Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Fortunately, at the last moment, the gunner on the dragon's back used all his strength to suddenly stretch out his right hand and grab the shaft of the crossbow bolt tightly.

Just as he tried to reach out his left hand to steady himself, the blood flowing from his seven orifices increased, as if he were being pressed down by an invisible force. His head throbbed with pain from the congestion, and the edges of his vision trembled. As the dragon suddenly performed a rolling maneuver, there was no solid ground beneath his feet. All he could see was a vast, churning sky, and the abyss of blue and white clouds seemed to be swallowing him whole.

When the dragon completed two consecutive rolls and returned to normal flight, the scene on its back had become even more horrific. Apart from the six sudden and ferocious crossbow bolts and the three raiding ships still relentlessly pursuing it, only the figures of him and his dragon rider remained.

However, this brief period of stability did not last long.

Just as he was thrown onto the dragon's back by inertia, gritting his teeth and trying his best to get up, two more sharp figures suddenly appeared on the dragon's back.

Dor Blackwing, who was originally diving, immediately sensed the attack on the dragon and flapped its wings, abruptly changing its flight path. When the dragon's dive was forced to stop and it entered a rolling, tumbling state, the distance between them was astonishing—so close that even Death Fang, whose vision had slightly recovered, detected its presence immediately.

Without the slightest hesitation, a burst of green, corrosive dragon breath erupted in the air, like a death ray piercing the sky, carrying a terrifying shockwave and intense heat as it hurtled towards the giant eagle's location. The air scorched, emitting a piercing hiss, and an intensely nauseating stench instantly filled the high sky.

Deathfang is a battle-hardened dragon, tempered by countless life-or-death struggles; and Dor Blackwing is no less a battle-hardened eagle.

Its intelligence is in no way inferior to that of any higher creature, and having dealt with or fought alongside the forest dragons of Ashloron over countless years, it is well-versed in the habits of dragons. The moment Death Fang's neck turns and its pupils and beak lock onto it, the giant eagle already anticipates its next move.

Dragons are proud, and so are eagles. They would never allow even the slightest corrosive scent to touch their glorious and magnificent feathers.

And so, at the very instant the dragon breath was unleashed, its figure seemed to be swallowed up by the winds of the sky, disappearing from the left side of the dragon. It not only knew the power and range of the dragon breath, but also knew that this scorching and corrosive breath would inevitably last for some time.

With a swift change in flight direction, the giant eagle, propelled by the airflow, appeared on the dragon's belly, avoiding the sharp talons that stretched out to hunt it down. In the next instant, it had already swooped to the dragon's right side, its wings flapping—the roller maneuver suddenly activated!

In that instant of tumbling, Tyrandor, who had already drawn his longbow to its fullest extent and was poised to unleash his arrow, seized the opening and decisively released it. The low hum of the bowstring transformed into a sharp whistle, and the arrow, as if imbued with the power of a gale, pointed directly at the dragon rider, directly at the gap in his helmet, and behind that gap lay the dragon rider's eyes.

However, at the very last moment before the impact, a crisp sound of metal colliding with a sharp weapon pierced the wind high in the sky.

Tyrandor and Alaros's expressions simultaneously turned extremely solemn. Even though they were now pointing their heads at the dragon's back, they still clearly caught the disheartening scene in their peripheral vision—the dragon rider, in the moment of life and death, raised his dragon spear and forcefully blocked the arrow.

Immediately afterward, Asanir blinked hard, trying to dispel the piercing pain that seemed to penetrate his brain. The trembling of his eyelids was like a battle against some invisible pressure. His face was contorted with rage and rage, as if the veins were throbbing beneath his skin, and his clenched teeth formed a hard arc at the corner of his lips. A violent roar burst from his mouth, like a wounded beast driven to the brink of despair, the sound exploding in the wind, mixed with heavy breathing.

He suddenly raised his head, his eyes still shrouded in pain, yet fixed intently on the direction from which the attack was coming.

In the next instant, as if casting aside all concerns, he decisively flung the dragon spear from his hand. The metal struck the dragon's back with a dull clang, and he reached out to unfasten the heavy buckle that firmly secured him to the dragon throne. When the buckle, made of thick leather straps and metal rings, clicked crisply, it was as if some kind of restraint had broken.

"Jump!"

Seeing that the opportunity was fleeting, Tyrandor stopped looking at the dragon rider and leaped off the eagle's back without hesitation. In the brief moment of airtime, he suddenly realized what was happening and growled at Alallos.

In that instant, the battle on the dragon's back suddenly erupted.

"Hold on! Get out!"

The dragon rider, having unbuttoned his helmet, shouted, his voice echoing from his metal helmet, short and urgent amidst the whistling wind and his roar. Before the words were even finished, he had risen from his dragon throne, his feet swaying slightly, but he steadied himself firmly, then drew his longsword, his movements so fast they left afterimages. His left-hand shield stood firmly in front of his helmet, a wall of steel that blocked his view from the deadly claws.

At the same time, Tyrandor, who had jumped down, gripped his hunting bow tightly with his left hand and the shaft of the crossbow bolt with his right. He twisted his body, spinning rapidly around the bolt shaft, using centrifugal force to propel himself forward, falling like an arrow released from a bow.

The instant he landed on the dragon's back, he rolled to dissipate the force, his left foot firmly planted on the ground, his right foot braced against the earth, his body frozen like a sculpture. He had already raised his hunting bow, aimed it at the dragon rider, and his left hand reached for the quiver with lightning speed.

Three arrows were nocked at the same time, the bowstrings taut and humming as they were pulled taut. The next second, the arrows shot out like three streaks of silver light slicing through the air, heading straight for their target.

As Asanir raised his shield to parry, he continued to swing his longsword, trying to drive away anything that was bothering him.

He had originally planned to launch a fatal attack while Tyrandor and Alaros were still unsteady on their feet, taking advantage of the situation to kill them both. However, this route was blocked by a figure that suddenly appeared.

It was a small falcon with a wingspan as wide as the night sky and eyes like burning metal.

That falcon was none other than Alaros's companion—Skarin, Tarion from the Lilith mini-world.

Alaros's identity in the Lilith small world is Asuyan. As for the Skarin, he is undoubtedly Tarion, without a doubt.

"Step aside!"

Tyrandor roared, his voice carrying an undeniable force, attempting to rouse Skarin from the dragon rider's attack range. Even as the roar echoed in the wind, he had already discarded his hunting bow and drawn the greatsword from his back. The blade flashed coldly in the sunlight, and then, accompanied by a low, heavy breathing, he slashed down at the dragon rider.

Just moments before, Alalos leaped from the giant eagle's back, his legs and waist unleashing power simultaneously. In the instant of mid-air, his movements possessed an almost theatrical elegance—a magnificent somersault that sliced ​​through the sky.

Unfortunately, it was already broad daylight, and there was no dim night or double moon to set off his silhouette as a shadow dancer. But even so, his figure was still as sharp as the wind, and after flipping and landing, his left foot landed steadily on the butt handle of a crossbow bolt.

At that very moment, Tyrandor's charge was nearing its breaking point.

Almost without thinking, Alalos's instincts propelled him forward, launching him off the crossbow bolt. In that instant, the spear that Des had forged for him—or more accurately, the Asley hunting spear—was thrown.

The shaft of the Asley spear is made of tough ash wood, with a smooth surface but subtle grain. It is usually decorated with feathers that symbolize the hunter's identity. However, the spear of Alallos is undecorated, with only cold simplicity and practicality.

Its true lethality lies in the spearhead, with barbs so sharp they resemble the fangs of a wild beast. When this weapon pierces an enemy's body and is pulled out, the barbs tear through flesh and armor, widening the original wound many times over and causing irreparable damage.

Faced with such a fierce attack, Asanir, who was preparing to parry Tyrandor's 180° forward slash with both hands gripping the hilt of his sword and raising it high above his head, did not choose to deflect his shield to meet the attack. Instead, in an instant, he suddenly turned his body, and with a sound of armor rubbing against each other, he twisted his neck and forcibly removed his helmet from the path of the attack.

In that instant, a cold light flashed like lightning.

The spear flew past his helmet, its tip scraping against the metal surface with a sharp, piercing sound that seemed to split the air, before piercing the dragon's back with a "thud."

The dragon's back shuddered violently, the muscles surging beneath its scales contracted and rippled, and its entire spine bent like a taut steel cable. Asanil could even feel the vibration traveling along the dragon's bones. He had no time to turn around and curse the man who had thrown the spear; he could only grit his teeth and raise his shield to take Tyrandor's fatal blow head-on.

The shield, forged from Ysera silver, with its intricate patterns and thick edges, gleamed a cold white in the sunlight and was sturdy enough to withstand most physical attacks.

However, when Tyrandor's sword struck, the impact was like thunder exploding in our ears.

"boom!"

Sparks flew, and the metallic groan, accompanied by a shockwave, pounded against his cheek. Although the attack was blocked, the immense force still cleaved the shield from its top edge, the crack extending like a fatal wound to the middle. The sword on the back of the shield touched his arm, but fortunately, the core structure was not completely broken, and the shield was still barely usable.

Before the shockwave had completely dissipated, Asaniel thrust his longsword out with a backhand motion, the blade aimed directly at the attacker's face. The force and speed reached their peak almost instantly—if this strike hit, it would be enough to pierce through the skull.

However, Tyrandor seemed to have anticipated the trajectory of the sword a moment earlier. The instant the dragon rider's sword tip pierced through the air, his figure had already slid to the side. The arc of his armor through the air was extremely smooth, and the plates at the joints rubbed against each other, producing a low metallic groan. Using the momentum, he suddenly swung his greatsword, creating a whistling sound, and swept it horizontally towards the shield in Asanir's hand.

"clang--!"

The force of the blow was like a storm crashing over the sea. The impact traveled along the shield to his arm instantly, causing Asaniel's wrist to go numb and his hand to throb with pain. He was jolted and staggered half a step. He gritted his teeth, steadied himself, and swung his sword horizontally with a backhand, the blade flashing with a cold light as it approached Tyrandor's ribs.

Tyrandor twisted his waist slightly, narrowly avoiding the attack. Almost simultaneously, he swung his sword upwards, the blade rising like a chilling wave, aiming for Asanir's jaw.

Asanir quickly lowered his head, and with a swift movement, his longsword pressed down, the double blades clashing together in the air with a dazzling spark.

Their steps were closely intertwined, and the sounds of swords clashing against shields and metal scraping against metal echoed continuously between their short breaths.

Tyrandor swung his sword, thrust, and lunged forward, each step accompanied by a menacing killing intent; Asaniel, relying on the coordination of his shield and sword, constantly parried, deflected, and then counterattacked when the opportunity arose. They circled, pressed, and probed within a very short distance, like two taut steel cables, where the slightest lapse could allow the other to gain the upper hand.

A heavy frontal slash was deflected by Asanil with the blade, but the recoil still flowed along the blade into his arm, forcing him to crouch to absorb the impact. Tyrandor pressed forward, his shoulder armor almost colliding with Asanil's breastplate, and with his other hand he shoved the hilt of his sword, forcing Asanil to retreat.

Asanir grunted, taking the opportunity to step aside and thrust his longsword swiftly from the side. However, Tyrandor twisted his shoulder to dodge, and the blade only grazed a thin white mark on his breastplate.

The clashes continued relentlessly, sword flashes and sparks flying between the two, the air thick with the metallic tang of sweat and the salty stench of metal. The battle had entered a fierce, close-quarters engagement, where any collision could decide the outcome.

Tyrandor, adapting to local customs, donned the standard armor of the Dreadlords—the latest type of Kish steel infused with rare sea gold, creating an incredibly strong yet relatively lightweight alloy. But even so, when this armor clashed head-on with a magic sword…

In contrast, Azaniel's situation wasn't much better. His Yseramar silver armor offered almost the same level of protection as Tyrandor's armor, its surface covered with intricate engravings. However, his opponent's weapon was also a magical sword, and each clash tore invisible yet deadly micro-cracks deep within the protective layers.

Ultimately, the heavy exchanges and sustained high-intensity movements gradually revealed weaknesses in both sides' defenses.

When Tyrandor parried Asanir's fierce upward slash, the shock caused the muscles in his right arm to twitch, and a wound torn open in the gap of his armor, from which blood trickled down.

During a backhand parry and sweep, Asaniel suffered a long gash under his left armpit from the sword's blade. The heat quickly soaked his inner lining, and within a few breaths, the strength in his left arm was almost completely exhausted, leaving him unable to hold the shield firmly.

The smell of blood wafted in the wind, and the heat and sweat mingled to create a suffocating battlefield atmosphere. The two men created a brief distance between them, their breathing heavy and rapid, yet their eyes remained locked on each other.

Tyrandor held his sword in his left hand, the blade slightly dragging on the ground; while Asaniel held his longsword horizontally in front of his chest, the blade trembling slightly, a defensive posture and a signal that he was ready to counterattack at any moment.

The wind howled between them as they faced each other, swords drawn and eyes locked on one another, yet neither spoke first. The next strike would be a fatal gamble that would completely change the course of the battle.

Just as tensions were about to rise, a series of hurried footsteps came from the side and behind, and Alalos appeared.

He held in his hand the hunting spear stained with dragon blood; on the barb at the spearhead, beads of bright red blood gleamed with a deep light in the sunlight.

He didn't rush to attack, but first glanced at Tyrandor, his eyes conveying a momentary exchange and tacit understanding; then, his gaze slowly shifted to Asaniel, his eyes as cold as iron; next, he looked at Tyrandor and nodded slightly, that subtle movement like a silent judgment.

He stepped between the two, his steps steady and without a trace of impatience, as if he were walking onto a stage that had already been set up.

A sense of foreboding welled up in Asanir's heart. He opened his mouth, ready to roar. At that very moment, Alaros moved.

His movements were devoid of any fancy moves or preparatory feints. He simply raised his spear, twisted the shaft with his back hand, and flung the barb at the tip in a bloody arc. Dragon blood scattered in the air into countless tiny blood mists, reflecting in the sunlight like shattered rubies.

The next moment, the spear exploded under the drive of his arms, transforming into a sharp, bloody shadow.

Asanir reacted suddenly, almost instinctively raising his sword to parry.

However, Alalos moved as fast as a shadow darting along the ground. The spear in his hand did not thrust straight at Asanir, but instead swept across to force Asanir to the side, thus disrupting his balance. Then, the spear shaft reversed, and the spear tip cut in from the side and below with a very small arc, forcing Asanir to raise his longsword to defend.

Asanil's left arm had almost lost all strength due to his previous severe injury, and his shield had long since slipped. He could only barely hold on by gripping his longsword tightly with his right hand. Alalos keenly perceived this weakness, and with each attack, he precisely targeted the gap in Asanil's left defense, forcing him to make difficult cross-blocks with his right hand, repeatedly shifting his center of gravity.

Alalos lunged forward, his spear flashing like a viper's tongue, swiftly stabbing towards Asanir's left ribs. Asanir hurriedly swung his sword to parry, the shockwave from the metal impact sending a sharp pain through his arm, nearly causing him to drop his grip.

Immediately, Asanir seized the opportunity to counterattack, his right hand drawing a sharp arc with his longsword, slashing straight at Alalos's shoulder with a whooshing sound. Alalos deftly retreated, the spear cutting through the air, leaving a cold glint in its light.

The third collision was even more intense. Alalos suddenly unleashed his full power, abruptly retracting his spear before thrusting it out at incredible speed, piercing through Asanir's remaining defenses.

"puff--"

With a dull, wet sound of armor being pierced, the spear forged by Des was like a butter knife, tearing through the defenses of Yseramar's silver and piercing Athanir's chest without any resistance. The blade and barbs tore out from the back armor, and the sounds of metal scraping and flesh breaking mixed together, sending chills down one's spine.

However, Alalos did not stop his attack when he got there. He pressed forward and used all his strength to pin Asanir firmly to the back of the dragon in front of the throne.

Blood gushed from Asanir's wound, and the longsword slipped limply from his fingers, making a crisp yet hollow metallic sound as it struck the deck-like dragon's back before rolling mercilessly to the side.

At this moment, the gunner, who was almost too weak to stand, twisted his body and crawled with difficulty to the side of the dragon throne. His fingers gripped the gaps in the dragon scales as if they were the only piece of driftwood.

When he looked up, he saw Alalos's attack.

In that instant, his heart felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer. First, it went blank, and then a belated, silent sense of collapse welled up from the depths of his chest. It was a feeling of loss and utter powerlessness.

He went through countless hardships, risking his life time and time again to get closer to his goal, all for that one chance that could change everything, but the situation before him was ended by someone else in the blink of an eye.

The feeling is like someone climbing a cliff with all their might, just about to reach the top, only to have another hand easily snatch away the fruit of their desperate struggle.

A sense of desolation, bordering on self-mockery, took root in his heart.

If he could, he would rather die by Asanir's sword right now than linger in this futile defeat.

The effects of the alcohol and the stinging sensation were completely overwhelmed by the impending shadow of death, and Asanir knew his time was running out. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, the pain in his chest making his breathing rapid and agonizing. He slowly removed his helmet, revealing sweat-dampened blond hair and a handsome face stained with blood.

His face appeared pale and stubborn in the sunlight. His helmet was tossed aside and rolled off the dragon's back with a dull thud. He raised his right hand and pointed at Alalos, who was standing close at hand.

He didn't question Alaros's identity; he wasn't interested. Instead, he gave a mocking smile and uttered a single word with a hint of provocation.

"Fañol!"

After saying that, he opened his mouth and tried to spit the blood in his mouth at Alalos. Unfortunately, even though the two were very close, the blood was still just a little short of splashing onto the other's face.

Alalos's gaze had been fixed on the gunner, but upon hearing the word, his expression changed, and he slowly turned to look at Asanir.

"Me? Fañol? Me! Fañol?" His tone was filled with undisguised shock.

He never imagined that one day someone would use this word to refer to him.

'Faniol' – In Elsalin, it was once a synonym for the lowest class, referring to the Asur among the working class. The good news is that it is now considered slang and is only used by some nobles to refer to the Asur of Avalon and Charis.

Although it's just a slang term, saying it to someone's face can be just as damaging as publicly insulting their ancestors or maternal lineage.

“You do resemble Fañol, in your accent and your attire.” Tyrandor stepped forward, glanced at Alaros’s brown-green armor, and added fuel to the fire with a cold laugh.

Alalos took a deep breath, trying to suppress the anger in his heart, but the flames burned brighter and brighter in his chest. He slowly turned his head to look at the gunner, his gaze finally settling on the harpoon crossbow hanging around the gunner's neck.

"What's your name?"

When Alalos's gaze suddenly turned to him, Kadir's heart tightened. Those eyes weren't simply filled with anger, but rather carried a deep, undeniable inquiry.

He instinctively wanted to get up, straighten his back, and answer, but he couldn't.

“Ka...Dil”.

Although the blood and pain made his voice intermittent, it still carried a stubbornness.

“I don’t know who you are! But I do know! You died at the hands of Kadir, at the hands of an Evil Guard, at least that’s what history records!” Alalos stretched out his left hand, his finger pointing coldly at Asanir, his voice firm and powerful, filled with unquestionable determination and anger.

After saying that, he decisively pulled out the hunting spear.

Asanir, who was being torn apart by excruciating pain, should have let out a piercing wail, but he gritted his teeth and held back the sound, his eyes, soaked with sweat and blood, fixed on Alalos.

Although his face showed disdain, a hint of fear was hard to hide deep in his eyes. This fear was not because death was imminent, but because of the undeniable power contained in Alaros's words.

Alaros didn't look at Asanir again, but instead turned his gaze to Tyrandor, who was still standing and staring firmly at Kadir.

"We don't need it, do we?"

Having said that, Tyrandor went to Kadir's side, and without hesitation reached out and picked up the harpoon crossbow hanging on Kadir's back, carefully examining every detail. After confirming that everything was in order, he forcefully lifted Kadir's hand and steadily handed the harpoon crossbow into Evil's palm.

At this moment, Tyrandor's heart was churning with anger and complex emotions. Alalos was called Fañol, and wasn't he the same?
“If only you weren’t Evil Guard, not the Navy, but the Army, a soldier of the Fifteenth Army,” Tyrandor said, his eyes gleaming with recognition and encouragement for Kadir. “We just saw your hard work and perseverance. Hard work always pays off, doesn’t it? Come on, Kadir, this is what you… deserve!”

It was Alalos who delivered the fatal blow to the dragon rider. Alalos himself said so, so what reason did he have to object? In fact, it seemed to him to be a good thing.
The fact that the enemy's first major target was personally killed by a guard after the battle began was undoubtedly an excellent morale-boosting propaganda point, allowing all soldiers to feel hope and strength in the battles to come...

As for the identity of the dragon rider, it is not important to Tyrandor; what matters is the result of the battle and the sense of victory that is gathered at this moment.

Kadir's face was now a complex mix of emotions, shock and ecstasy intertwined into a blazing fire. In that instant, his body, which had been nearly exhausted by long hours of struggle, was suddenly infused with new life, causing his heart to pound so hard it felt like it would burst out of his chest.

This force dispelled all the gloom and despair that had preceded him. At this moment, he seemed to see the dawn of hope and a turning point in his destiny.

When the dragon rider slowly turned his head to look at him, his eyes instantly became firm and resolute.

He knew that this strike was not just a simple action, but a challenge to his fate and a declaration to the future.

Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, feeling the cold mechanical vibration at his fingertips—a symbol of his control over his destiny. The harpoon rang out with a sharp, crisp mechanical sound, and the arrow, like a bolt from a bow, pierced the air, carrying all his desire and determination, flying precisely towards its target.

The legend of Asaniel is widely told in his hometown.

From a young age, he grew up immersed in the martial traditions of Caledor, becoming a great warrior. Even more remarkably, he was one of the few elves capable of awakening the slumbering dragons of the Caledor Dragonspine Mountains.

His companion, the Fang of Death, is one of the most valiant and warlike dragons among the princes of Caledor. With their invincible power, they are almost unstoppable.

After the Battle of Fennoval Plains, Asaniel received new orders to quickly rendezvous with the troops marching from Lorthorn.

However, no sooner had the order been given than he received shocking news: the Kingdom of Caledor was under fierce attack. Faced with the peril of his homeland, Asaniel did not hesitate. He immediately mobilized the entire Dragon Rider force, leading them back to their homeland to defend it to the death.

In that blazing, magnificent raid, the dragon riders of Caledo, with unparalleled bravery, drove the army of Duruci into the vast ocean, protecting their land and glory.

Returning in triumph, Asaniel was filled with confidence, brimming with the joy of glory and victory, and firmly believed that he would surely receive the highest reward and honor.

However, when he arrived at the camp of King Finnubar, he was not greeted with a warm welcome and celebration, but rather with a severe interrogation and accusations.

When the Phoenix King learned that Asaniel had disobeyed orders without authorization, he was furious, and his anger swept over him like a raging inferno.

(Laofen is like a brick, moved wherever needed, with different personalities and playing different roles in different stories.)
Asaniel was summoned before the Phoenix King and forced to explain why he had acted without authorization. Faced with the accusations, the stark contrast ignited his fury, and he angrily declared that he would no longer be a subject of the Ulthuan monarchy, nor would he be subject to the supreme will that could not comprehend him.

Finnubar responded swiftly and harshly: unless Asaniel obeyed the judgment and accepted the punishment, he would be stripped of all titles and lands and banished from Ulthuan forever.

Despite being caught in the vortex of political struggle and becoming a victim, Asanir remained proud and unyielding, resolutely refusing to submit to any shackles.

Thus, he became a prince who had lost his lands—an exiled lord of Asur. He gathered his weapons and armor, mounted the Fang of Death, and resolutely left his blessed homeland of Ulthuan, embarking on an unknown journey.

The colossal wings of the Fang of Death ripped through the sky, flying towards an abandoned elven ruin south of Elsin Alwyn, now human territory. Finally, the dragon circled and descended over Remas, a city-state in Tyrell, where Athaniel's figure remained frozen in time.

From that moment on, Asaniel's proud banner flew over countless battlefields in the Old World, and he transformed into an unbridled warhound mercenary.

Although only the wealthiest human nobles could afford to hire him at exorbitant fees, almost everyone who sought his help saw the light of victory. Yet, beneath his steel-like exterior, a dream that never faded remained deep within him—to return in triumph to his homeland of Caledon, carrying the spoils of his victory.

Now, with Darkus's influence and his death, everything that followed has been prematurely brought to an end. (End of Chapter)