Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

When the figure of the Fang of Death entered Hadris's field of vision, his face, which had been as calm as still water, suddenly twisted in an instant.

It was a change so rapid it was almost reminiscent of a storm suddenly crashing onto the sea, too fast to catch one's breath. Like a cold, floating corpse that had struggled for a long time in the deep sea, only to be swallowed by the merciless waves, its body reeking of the sea's stench.

That face, at this moment, was as sinister as the night covering raven feathers, so cold that it could almost freeze frost in the air. It even seemed as if cold seawater was silently streaming down his face, drop by drop—not tears, but a liquid seeping from the depths of the sea, carrying the aura of death.

This marked the first truly unexpected situation in the operation. Like a sudden surge of current beneath a reef, it disrupted the meticulously planned operational rhythm.

The intelligence was clearly flawed, and a very serious one at that.

Logically, the intelligence he possessed clearly indicated that the Kingdom of Caledo had not deployed its meager dragon forces in this area, a fact repeatedly confirmed in previous intelligence reports. Yet, at this moment, a colossal dragon appeared brazenly in the sky above the battlefield, its imposing presence like the eye of a storm.

what does this mean?
This means that before they arrived, Caledo had already reinforced its troops or temporarily strengthened its defenses in a short period of time. Moreover, the level of reinforcement was so high that it was not a typical temporary deployment, but a strategic move that could overturn the course of the battle.

That was true, at least for the old-fashioned Trucchi, but unfortunately, it is now a new era.

"Shouldn't we have started the lander sooner?"

Hadris spat out the words through gritted teeth, his tone sinister, like the churning currents deep within a reef, cold yet laced with a barbed mockery, as if using those words to expose someone's dereliction of duty and negligence.

However, he was met with a deathly silence.

The officers in the command room wore somber expressions, veins bulging on their foreheads, their eyes flashing with unease and apprehension, like seabirds weighed down by a storm. No one spoke first, and no one dared to meet his gaze; those eyes were like the gaping maw of an abyss, threatening to swallow anyone who met them.

In theory, this constitutes a major oversight in the deployment plan, one that could affect the entire course of the operation.

Although the Seafood Feast was originally only added as a backup for the testing phase because operational conditions were ripe, and its deployment wasn't even a certainty in the original plan, the fact that it wasn't activated beforehand due to unforeseen circumstances makes it seem somewhat...

"Even without the Land Cruiser, we can still solve the problem, can't we?"

As the Fang of Death began its low descent, Hadris continued speaking as if to himself, his voice carrying a chilling intensity that seemed to seep into one's very bones, a chill that made one feel as if the surrounding air had frozen for a moment.

At the same time, the knuckles of his fingers gripping the armrest made a series of crisp and dangerous creaking sounds as they tightened, a protest of the joints and bones under immense pressure, and also a signal of something about to be about to be unleashed.

This time, the officers present responded in hushed tones.
-

Tyrandor looked up at the dragon that had suddenly appeared and then swooped down with the force of thunder.

From the moment he left Asororen and embarked on this irreversible path with Darkus, he knew that one day he would face Asul head-on. That clarity was not a vague premonition, but a sense of destiny etched into his very bones, like the tides that will eventually return to shore, no matter how many twists and turns they take along the way.

This battle is inevitable.

Not all problems can be resolved through diplomatic rhetoric and political bargaining. Some things require bloodshed and steel blades to arrive at an answer.

He already knew it.

Always known.

But he chose to avoid it, feigning ignorance time and time again, burying this heavy premonition deep in his heart. He threw himself into countless battles, training sessions, and deployments, treating each swing of his sword and each deployment as a dose of anesthetic, slowly whittling away his time and attention.

He told himself it was to save the world; to ensure the continuation of his people; and to allow certain things that had to be done to happen naturally, in the face of the tides of time.

But this kind of self-persuasion is like trying to plug a breach in a dam with sand; it will eventually be breached.

Now, time has brought him to the end.

There is no way out.

He looked down at the rows of barges lined up together. The tiny black dots among them were his soldiers, including Duruchi, Enil, and Asley, but without exception, they were all warriors under his command; they were personally selected by him, raised under his orders, and some had even fought alongside him day and night, becoming as familiar with each other as family.

He knew those people had ways of dealing with it.

He also knew that those barges were not without defenses; in fact, they had already prepared countermeasures, like sleeping beasts waiting to be awakened when triggered.

But merely observing from above has never been in his nature.

He must do something.

We must face it.

These thoughts flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern, lasting only a few seconds, yet feeling like a long, drawn-out recollection. It wasn't because he was about to die, nor because of fear, but because the blood in his body was boiling, adrenaline surging like a tidal wave, pounding against his heart and eardrums, making the surrounding sounds a low, rumbling roar.

He abruptly turned his head, his bloodshot, crimson eyes fixed on Alaros behind him. His gaze burned with a fiery intensity, as if he wanted to pin the other man to the spot.

At that moment, Alaros was looking at the dragon. Sensing that burning gaze, he was pulled by some invisible force and slowly turned his head.

"Stop him!"

Tyrandor gritted his teeth, practically forcing the command from the depths of his chest, his voice filled with an irresistible killing intent. That killing intent was as heavy as an anchor weighed down by seawater; once it fell, it could not be shaken.

At this moment, Alalos was in shock, not because of the appearance of the dragon.

Compared to his first encounter with the seafood feast, he had already seen the dragon in countless battles and expeditions. To him, the light green dragon was almost identical in appearance to the forest dragons that roamed the depths of Azsorloth. The color of its scales and the feather-like crests had similar textures and outlines, and even its diving posture overlapped with certain scenes in his memory.

What truly shocked him was Tyrandor.

This was the first time Alallos had witnessed Tyrandeur display such an extraordinary expression. His bloodshot, crimson eyes seemed to be stained with both flames and blood, and a chilling light flickered in their depths. He exuded a suffocating aura, as if the air itself had solidified into sharp blades from his rage, and every breath felt like being ripped apart by those blades.

Alalos could clearly feel that this aura was like a scorching flame, burning his nerves and shaking his soul.

He knew that Tyrandeur had already made his decision.

It was a decision with no turning back, a path forged in blood and fire, filled with endless challenges and sacrifices.

In contrast, he himself was still hesitant, hovering on the edge of making a decision.

"Now, it's my turn..."

Alalos took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slightly with his nervousness.

Just as he was about to nod vigorously in response and prepare to answer the call of fate.

His response was, however, to Dor Blackwing's action.

The moment Tyrandor made his decision, the giant eagle's wings suddenly stopped their ascent, as if all its strength had been drained. It hovered in the air for a brief moment, and the next second, its massive body plummeted downwards.

At that moment, Alalos even had the illusion that the giant eagle had lost its life in that instant.

However, the fall was not the end.

The giant eagle's wings suddenly spread out in mid-air, and the coordination of its feathers and muscles allowed it to skillfully adjust its posture.

A complex and elegant trajectory was drawn in the air, a super-maneuverable stunt only seen in air shows or on top fighter jets—the Falling Leaf.

High in the sky, it was like a leaf falling in the wind, the air being cut into tiny vortexes by sharp blades, and a sharp whistling sound whistled past the ears, thrilling and breathtaking.

However, Dol Blackwing did not drift away with the wind forever.

It precisely adjusted the curvature of its wings, the angle of its tail feathers, and its center of gravity, cleverly using inertia to steadily cut off its descent after a half-circle fall.

Immediately, it seamlessly connected its flight path with the dragon's Death Fang's dive trajectory, and the two paths intersected in mid-air, forming a deadly clash.

Tarion's offspring, Dol Blackwing, let out a heart-wrenching scream, so sharp it seemed to tear at the very marrow. Then, it abruptly folded its wings, turned, and launched a fierce dive!
-

On the barge, the moving soldiers also witnessed the dragon swooping down.

It would be a lie to say I wasn't afraid; that kind of oppressive feeling was almost instinctive.

It would be a lie to say they didn't have the urge to jump into the sea to escape, even though they had been repeatedly simulated being swooped down by the Red Dragon during training and had experienced the pressure and shock that made their bones tighten and their breath suffocate.

The feeling is like an infantryman training deep in a trench, listening to the roar of tank tracks and the vibration of steel crushing the earth. Even if they are seasoned veterans and know it's just training, their legs will still tremble involuntarily.

However, fear and courage are not opposites, but can coexist.

Just as infantrymen would immediately pick up anti-tank weapons and turn around to deliver a fatal blow to the enemy after a tank had passed through the trench, soldiers would also grit their teeth and suppress their instinctive fear under the shouts and commands of their officers, returning to order, their steps quick but not chaotic, moving across the decks and iron bridges, maintaining their marching formation.

"950 meters!"

A short, urgent report rang out in the wind, clearly coming from the side of the barge.

The artillery crew members, holding the artillery rangefinder, stared intently at the giant dragon swooping down from the sky, their voices crisp and cold.

The heavy ballista crew beside him was adjusting the firing angle under the officer's command. The heavy metal frame made a low grinding sound, and the huge arrow at the front of the ballista gleamed dangerously in the light. It was an armor-piercing arrow, enough to pierce through the scales of a dragon.

The special barge is equipped with a total of twelve heavy ballistae, positioned on both sides of the hull. At the same time, six searchlights are also mounted on each side, adjacent to the positions of the heavy ballistae.

Similar parameters echoed continuously in the air, like the rapid, dense beat of war drums, urging everyone's nerves to enter a state of utmost tension.

The heavy ballistae on the barge emitted a low, metallic scraping sound as they slowly adjusted their angles at the officer's command, their bodies trembling slightly, as if eager to unleash their deadly arrows. Not far away, rows of towering searchlights also rotated slowly, their mirrors reflecting patches of cold white light as they passed by.

However, unlike these heavy ballistae, the right to fire the searchlights did not lie with the gunners, but firmly with the tidecallers attached to the barges. Strangely, these tidecallers did not immediately activate the lights, even though the guards on both sides had already precisely adjusted their angles and were waiting for the signal.

It wasn't because the faint light of dawn had appeared in the east, nor because the searchlights became useless after daybreak.

On the contrary, even in daylight, these searchlights can still play a remarkable role on the battlefield if used "correctly".

The reason it hadn't been lit yet was because... on the deck, among the running soldiers, there was a particularly conspicuous figure.

Unlike the warriors around him, who were caught up in the hurried footsteps and panting, he stood firmly and motionless. He wore a black eye patch, was fully clad in armor, held a gleaming sword in his left hand, and gripped an incredibly heavy warhammer in his right—the Vaal Hammer.

He didn't rely on his eyes to perceive the battlefield, but instead used a different, more precise method to capture every sound and every breath. His attention first swept to both sides, watching how the Evil Guards operated the silent and dangerous heavy ballistae and the unlit searchlights.

After a brief observation, he looked up and focused his senses on the high sky.

The hammer handle trembled slightly in his hand, and fine golden patterns appeared on the surface of the Vaal Hammer, as if countless energies were surging within it.

Unlike the other timeline where he was weak and powerless at the end, ultimately dying in battle, he—Daiss—was exceptionally powerful at this moment, burning with a fanatical confidence: he was certain that with just one hammer blow, he could blast that dragon down from the sky!
Just one hammer blow!
All of this was thanks to Darkus's arrangements and manipulations. After all, in Nagalos's vast industrial system, almost all of the participants, the Drucci, were devout Vaal believers. Hundreds of thousands of their beliefs converged like a tide, propelling him to an unprecedented peak.

He gazed once more at the swooping dragon, then his attention was suddenly drawn to a spot behind it. There, the energy was as intense as the most blazing star in the night sky; even if one tried to ignore it, its presence would forcefully pull them back.

He remained silent for a moment, then sighed, a strange intuition rising in his heart—perhaps, this battle didn't require his personal intervention.

His thoughts gathered, he took a step forward, as if some switch had been flipped back on. He was no longer that isolated and abrupt shadow, but smoothly blended into the rushing torrent of soldiers. The instant he took his first step, a rare, faint smile appeared on his usually calm face.
-

A high-pitched and piercing cry suddenly tore through the air, like a sharp sword piercing Asanir's eardrums, instantly shattering his battle plan. He looked up sharply, following the sound, and saw a dark shadow rushing towards him from the other side, as imposing as a thunderbolt, like a dark cloud that swallowed the sunlight.

That was Dol Blackwing—a giant eagle, cutting precisely into the trajectory of Death's Fang's dive. Its wings vibrated in the air, unleashing a thunderous sonic boom.

Asanir stared at the massive figure rushing towards him. The next moment, the corners of his mouth slowly curled up, revealing a smile full of contempt and amusement—a mockery and confidence that emanated from his very bones.

After all, this was not the first time he had seen a giant eagle, nor was it the first time he had dealt with one.

The mass of a dragon and a giant eagle are not even in the same league.

He didn't believe that the giant eagle, which had just taken its place and was still behind Death Fang, could catch up with Death Fang, who was now fully engaged in a dive and falling at an incredible speed like a falling meteor.

Unless the elves on the giant eagle were spellcasters, but he didn't think so. Although he didn't know why there were two elves on the giant eagle's back, judging from their attire, weapons, and posture... they didn't seem like spellcasters at all; they seemed more like a combination of a warrior and a ranger?

Unless the giant eagle can adjust its angle in a short time and cut into the interception position before Death Fang finishes its dive and tries to rise... there is only a slight possibility.

Just as he was pondering, a series of muffled yet sharp explosions suddenly came from the other side behind him. The sound seemed to tear the air apart, and it rushed straight to his eardrums from behind with a sense of oppression.

However, before he could turn his head to confirm, or even gather his thoughts, a shrill scream suddenly burst from his throat.

Almost at the same instant, the Fang of Death also let out an extremely painful roar, a roar filled with unbelievable anger and forced humiliation, which shook the surrounding air and caused fine ripples to spread.

Twelve special barges, each equipped with twelve searchlights. They are like halberds of light standing upright on the sea, their blades firmly pressed against the neck of darkness, waiting only for the order to cleave through the gloom.

These searchlights were operated by the Tidecallers attached to the barges. The original plan was to activate them when the dragon got closer, to create space for the heavy ballistae to attack and disrupt the dragon's vision.

However, things never go exactly as planned on the battlefield; changes always come quickly and swiftly.

In broad daylight, pupils are already constricted, and a sudden burst of bright light is like a white thunderbolt exploding in front of your eyes, forcing your pupils to contract rapidly and creating a violent glare.

This is an instinctive torment for any living being.

Death Fang felt excruciating pain in his eyes, his vision blurring instantly; while Asanir's eyes welled up with unstoppable tears, the world completely robbed of its whiteness at that moment, plunging him into temporary blindness.

As for why the tide chasers chose to turn on their searchlights at this moment...

The mass of a giant eagle is certainly not in the same league as the mass of a dragon, and similarly, the mass of a raiding ship is far from that of a dragon.
But raiding ships... can be overloaded.

At roughly the same moment that Dol Blackwing completed his Falling Leaf, another force also began its operation in the air.

The raiding ship, piloted by the Stormweavers, suddenly made a mid-air maneuver.

The ten raiding ships spread out in formation high in the sky, forming ten spears with tongues of fire, and without hesitation thrust them into a certain point in the sky—the direction of the Fang of Death.

Once in the dive, the weavers activated the Arcane Orb, pushing it to its limit overload within a short timeframe.

The air was torn apart by energy, and explosions ripped through the air one after another, like thunder striking the hearts of everyone present.

If Asaniel's eyes were intact at that moment, he would have clearly seen those raiding ships rushing towards him with undisguised killing intent, moving faster than giant eagles.

Although his vision was blocked by the white light, the others on the battlefield were not; they weren't blinded by the 144 searchlights. Their eyes followed the fastest diving assault ship, watching a sharp silver line slice through the sky.

Under the watchful eyes of Tyrandor, Aralos, Hadris, Des, Aredel, Veltrie, and thousands of Durucci army and navy soldiers, the gunners on the raiding ship, held in place by the other gunners, roared as they pulled down their triggers.

The vibrations from the ballistae traveled through the deck to everyone's feet, and the giant arrows shot out with a whistling sound as they tore through the air.

Before the roar of the Death Fang had ended, a second roar erupted from its throat, this time accompanied by a mixture of pain and rage. The arrow pierced heavily into its back, the shaft trembling slightly in the wind, yet still standing firmly not far from the throne, like a defiant battle flag.

If Asaniel wanted, he could even reach out and touch it, provided he could see it.

The next second, the gunner who fired the arrow didn't have time to let out the excited roar that should have echoed across the deck. Biting his tongue, he waved his hands and gripped the fixed position next to him tightly. His knuckles turned white instantly from the excessive force, and his joints seemed to be crushed.

Almost simultaneously, the raiding ship he was on slammed solidly into the dragon's back, and the ramming horn, designed specifically for this scene, mercilessly embedded itself into the dragon's thick scales and muscles.

At this moment, the whole scene was like a boot with steel spikes hidden in the toe, deeply embedded in the flesh, so deep that the owner of the shoe had no choice but to discard it along with the shoe.

The force of the impact almost shook a person's soul out of their bones.

The gunner felt as if his chest had been struck by a giant hammer, his internal organs churning and dislocating as if they were about to be flung out of his body. He suddenly coughed up a mouthful of hot blood that tasted like bile, and his vision blurred violently. His eardrums ripped apart with a deafening roar, and warm liquid gushed from his ear canals with a piercing shriek. The world instantly fell silent.

At the same time, hot blood gushed from his eyes and nostrils, blurring his already dazed vision.

Even in this dazed and almost delirious state, he was still clearly aware that the impact had nearly killed him. Fortunately, he hadn't completely fallen into the abyss of darkness. His body swayed helplessly from the inertia, and when he tried to support his upper body, he found that his hands felt as if their nerves had been severed, disconnected from his torso, and no matter how his will commanded them, they remained motionless.

Fortunately, this situation did not last long.

As he struggled to open his mouth, spitting out a mouthful of blood and the severed tip of his tongue that had been bitten off during the bite, the tactile sensation returned to his hands like a tidal wave. He didn't look at the small piece of tongue stuck to the ballista, the price that had kept him conscious; nor did he care about his comrades, some struggling to their feet on the deck, others already unconscious.

Without a doubt, this was the first to arrive!
This is the moment to make a name for yourself!
Without the slightest hesitation, he pulled the harpoon crossbow hanging from the inside of the ship's side, quickly swung the straps around his neck, and completed the action in such a rapid motion that it was almost a half-crawling, half-pounce.

Then, he flipped over and rolled off the side of the raiding ship, crashing heavily onto the dragon's back. The hardness of the scales made him groan again.

At this moment, six more crossbow bolts appeared on the dragon's back, their fletching trembling in the wind, like a prelude to the impending battle. The three raiding ships were now deeply embedded in the dragon's back, their crews thrown about by the violent impact. Some tumbled onto the dragon's back, desperately clinging to the protruding scales; others, landing poorly, slipped off the edge of the dragon's back, becoming black dots plummeting into the sky; and many more lay sprawled on the deck, groans echoing, or completely unconscious.

Another raider ship collided with the wings of the Death Fang. The thick, gate-like wing membrane suddenly trembled, whipping up a gale that flung the people on board into the air like dumplings being dropped into boiling water. Screams were instantly drowned out by the howling air.

As for the other six raiding ships, their dive angle and speed did not perfectly match the opportunity, so they could only glide past the dragon's massive body and failed to make a fatal impact.

The gunner struggled to his feet, his body feeling as if it didn't belong to him, each breath accompanied by excruciating pain. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a rapidly approaching figure—the pilot of their raiding ship.

The Weaver landed steadily on the dragon's back, slightly bending his knees to absorb the impact, and then pulled the dragon off. A cold, fierce fighting spirit burned in the Weaver's eyes as he drew his sword without hesitation. The blade hummed in the wind, pointing directly at the dragon throne that symbolized the ruler of dragons.

The gunner gritted his teeth, staggering as he charged toward the dragon throne. The air was thick with the stench of blood and the scorching heat of burning flesh, as if it would scorch one's lungs. His vision trembled violently from the shaking as he struggled to maintain his balance on the chaotic back of the dragon.

As he moved, he saw the Weaver's figure flash like lightning, weaving through the protrusions and crevices of the dragon's back, almost within reach of the throne. A sense of urgency surged within him—the Weaver was about to succeed, very soon, so very soon.

He suddenly let out a hoarse roar, his voice sounding particularly desolate amidst the sound of the wind rubbing against the dragon scales.

His gaze was fixed on the dragon throne, but the throne's back was facing outwards, like a heavy barrier, firmly obscuring the rider's figure. He could only see the head that swayed with the dragon's breathing and movements, like a lone lamp flickering in a storm, appearing and disappearing, but never revealing its full form.

He knew very well that he only had one chance!
Even more clearly, at this distance, he had no chance of hitting the target accurately. Even though the harpoon string was taut as a steel wire, he knew that this shot wouldn't eliminate the target immediately.

In that instant, an impulse surged through his chest, almost overwhelming his reason—to send the harpoon crossbow bolt directly into the Tidecaller's body.

But reason cut off this impulse like a cold blade; he knew clearly that he couldn't do it. Because on the dragon's back, besides him and the Tidecaller, there were other soldiers.

Even if he ultimately succeeds, the doors of the military court will be open to him, and the surviving soldiers will be the most ruthless witnesses.

So he could only continue to accelerate desperately, his footsteps making sharp scraping sounds as he pushed off the dragon scales, trying to get into position as quickly as possible, even if it was just for a moment, to create an opportunity to finish off the enemy.

However, just as he was running at full speed...

Daisy stopped running.

He swung his heavy Vaal Hammer with a loud whistling sound, shattering several crossbow bolts that had already missed their mark and were hurtling towards the barge. The broken shafts spun through the air as they fell.

His senses followed the wind and sunlight as he observed the scene in the sky.

At this moment, the sky above this battlefield was bustling with an almost frenzied excitement.

The crashing raiding ships and their ejected crews rained down from the sky; those raiding ships, desperately slowing down after their failed collisions, were adjusting themselves, trailing long plumes of flame; the giant eagle adjusted its dive trajectory and flew towards the dragon; the Deep Sea Steed charged straight at the dragon head-on, its Soul Splitter on its back making its final preparations for battle; and behind the Deep Sea Steed, a horde of sea beasts known as the Seafood Feast rushed in with the momentum of breaking through the waves.

But without a doubt, the absolute protagonist of this sky is still the giant dragon performing its rolling maneuvers. Its scales gleam coldly under the searchlights, like an actor on a stage, the focus of everyone's attention, completing its final performance against the backdrop of blood and fire.

Dess clearly sensed that the dragon's attack had failed.

After being violently rammed by the raiding ship and subjected to continuous rolling maneuvers, the dragon's dive trajectory had completely veered off course, a deviation that could no longer be corrected. He could even intuitively sense that the dragon had no chance to dive again.

"crazy!"

He uttered this assessment in a low voice, his tone like a lead weight sinking to the bottom of the sea, carrying a cold weight. Then, he followed the example of the soldiers around him, raising his weapon high and joining in the deafening cheers.

The gunner on the dragon's back watched helplessly as the Weaver flew out, just as she was about to pierce the gap in the dragon rider's armor, and he too was launched into the air... (End of Chapter)