Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Now, Astarian has only two options: one is to continue to intensify their attack, push Duruci back onto the path, block the path, and completely shut down Duruci's offensive path.

However, doing so would result in enormous casualties, with blood flowing like a mountain stream.

At this moment, in addition to the four ballistae that were just there, four more ballistae were set up on the slope, turning the area into a veritable killing field.

The two hundred-man archer squads, devastated by the attack, were rendered incapable of fighting. Their corpses and broken bows lay scattered in the dust, a stark reminder of what had just happened.

Thinking of this, he looked up at the sky, but he saw nothing. His nephew and the Fang of Death did not appear. All he saw was a hazy dust and ashes swirling in the wind.

If only Asanir and the Fang of Death were here, he wouldn't need to think so much. He could just go all in and, with the dragon's support, push Druqi back. As soon as the dragon's shadow sweeps across the battlefield, even the most ferocious Druqi will pause in shock; the dragon's breath, burning everything, will be an overwhelming force.

But Asaniel and the Fang of Death are not here.

“Arrogance!” He sighed heavily, as if he were exhaling all the pent-up frustration in his chest.

If his nephew... even if he only restrained himself slightly, even if he only exercised a little more caution...

But it's too late to say anything now. What's done is done, and they've paid the price for their arrogance—a price that is cruel and indifferent, and will not be lessened by regret.

Now, this result raises another question: what killed his nephew and the dragon? Magic? Machinery? A black dragon?
The equipment was the outcome he preferred. He knew that the ballistae used by Duruchi could not kill the dragon without large-scale deployment; only heavy ballistae could.

This means that heavy ballistae cannot be deployed; they cannot be brought up the mountain roads, traversed the trails, or deployed on the slopes. Even if they could, it would take a considerable amount of time.

Magic and the black dragon... If it were either of those, he hoped the scene would be reversed, and it would be Asur, not Duruchi, who would be suppressed; that would be the true scene of destruction.

If we don't launch an attack and instead retreat, it's just a slow death, and then more Duruci will emerge from the side paths, like a never-ending tide.

Retreating meant that he was abandoning the spearmen who were still holding on. These spearmen were destined to be sacrificed, and Duruci would not allow them to retreat.

This is devastating for Asur, who have not yet entered the battle. Their morale will be hit hard, and with Asanir and the dragons yet to appear, the morale of the entire army will inevitably plummet.

What's even more awkward is that the reinforcements that arrived last night need to rest and cannot be directly deployed to the battle. And what's even more awkward is that he currently has no magical power. Among the third wave of reinforcements, the only magical power he can rely on is from the Val priests.

Just as Astarion was making his decision, the Soulbreaker clashed with the Dragon Prince.

The dragon prince wore blue and white armor, which resembled the brilliance between the sea and the sky, making him appear extremely imposing.

One hand holds a longsword, its blade flashing with a chilling white flame; the other holds a white shield, the center of which is engraved with the emblem of a blue dragon, which, against the backdrop of blood and sword, seems like a leaping soul.

As the Dragon Prince, he did not ride a warhorse, nor did he have any dragon companions. Instead, he entered the battle as a foot knight. His posture was upright, and his steps were firm. His composure seemed to be a declaration—no matter how the situation changed, he would command and protect these five hundred-man squads, leading them to fight and kill under his guidance.

Yes, he was the commander of this vanguard force.

Compared to the Dragon Prince, the Soul Splitter's attire and aura seemed to come from another unspeakable abyss. His armor was flawless, from helmet and throat guard to leg guards, all perfectly fitted without leaving the slightest flaw.

The armor gleamed with a cold, bluish-green light, resembling the shell of some deep-sea behemoth. Several blood-red gems were embedded in its surface; these gems were not mere decorations, but rather emitted a cold, eerie radiance, like frozen eyes staring intently at their opponent.

The shoulder armor is even more exaggerated in design, sharp as a knife and angular like a carapace, reinforcing the image of a predator, as if it could tear flesh apart at any moment. The lower body is draped with a sea-blue algae fabric as a protective skirt, swaying and fluttering in the wind, with an eerie sense of elegance, yet not lacking in oppression and majesty, like the ebb and flow of the tide, both beautiful and deadly.

However, what was most chilling was his helmet. It was no ordinary helmet, but rather a helmet with an almost biological design.

The helmet's front end features a sickle-shaped, curved decoration that extends upwards from the forehead, curving to the top of the head like a bone spur of a deep-sea predator; a continuous, curved spiky structure extends from the back of the head, arching all the way to the top of the helmet. The most bizarre feature is the lamp-like object hanging from the end of that spiky point, emitting a dim yellow light, like bait in the deep sea, or an ever-burning lamp. Its swaying motion exudes an indescribable sense of menace, seemingly summoning some unspeakable being.

The visor concealed the Soulbreaker's features, leaving only a blurry outline that blended seamlessly with the helmet, as if the wearer was no longer a pure elf, but rather completely intertwined with the sea and some kind of abyssal creature.

The overall design is fluid and sharp, carrying the mystery of a priest and the cruelty of a warrior, like a predator lurking in the deep sea, both mysterious and solemn, with an overwhelming sense of oppression.

What's even more hard to look at is the weapon in the Soul Splitter's hand—a long halberd with a strange shape and a hooked blade.

Within the cult, it's known as the "Taren Hook," but the Evil Guards prefer to call it the "Soul-Slicing Battle Hook." The hook's blade curves in an S-shape, its edges riddled with fine serrations, capable of tearing flesh apart with every swing. Even more sinister is the lasso attached to the hook, suggesting it's not merely for killing, but specifically designed to drag and capture souls.

But none of these were as sinister as the lamp-like object hanging from the top of the helmet.

The light was not merely illumination, but rather a spiritual temptation, a beacon in the abyss.

The moment the Dragon Prince saw that eerie light, a disorienting illusion arose in his mind, as if the being before him should not appear on the battlefield, but should forever lie dormant in the seabed, becoming a symbol of mystery and fear. The figure of the Soul Splitter was like a shadow from the depths of the trench, forcibly pulled into reality.

Although the father resembles the son, the father is still the father, and the son is still the son. The Edenis of the next era only exists in Darkus's words.

Some heads are absolutely impossible to open, otherwise everything would fall into chaos, so unfortunately, the sinister nature of the lamp-shaped object was not fully revealed.

There was no nonsense, no greetings.

The Soul Splitter and the Dragon Prince moved almost at the same instant.

With a diagonal slash, the Soul Splitter fell to the ground.

The dragon prince, still standing, fared no better. His shield had been shattered, splinters of wood and metal raining down, and a large section of his left upper arm had vanished in the blood. Just moments before, he had sensed the ferocity and ruthlessness of his opponent, a chilling feeling of brushing against death. Yet, he hadn't hesitated, hadn't retreated; instead, he had chosen a life-for-life approach—the dragon prince's final act of pride.

He did his best to parry the heavy grappling hook, while simultaneously pressing himself against the enemy's chest. His longsword, gleaming with fury and determination, plunged diagonally into the enemy's helmet, the blade making a dull tearing sound as it sliced ​​through the metal and flesh.

However, before he could let out a triumphant roar, before he could even look down at his terrible injuries, another Soul Splitter appeared in front of him.

Just like the previous moment, the new enemy was utterly silent, offering no provocation or greetings; it was as if slaughter was their only language. Having learned from his previous experience, the Soul Splitter immediately activated his flashlight, and with a blinding flash of light, he turned the power up to maximum.

Immediately afterwards, his movements were so fast that they were almost afterimages. First, he made a horizontal slash, the hook blade cutting through the air with a roaring whistling sound. Then he twisted his body, spun in place, and used the momentum to suddenly leap into the air, delivering a powerful jumping slash that came crashing down!
In that instant, the air seemed to be compressed, and the explosive impact drowned out the noise of the battlefield.

The championship showdown has now come to a complete end.

Following Asanir, another dragon prince has fallen in battle.

The Dragon Prince's figure fell heavily, like a flag broken in the sea of ​​fire and blood.

The longsword was cleaved in two by the Soulbreaker's sweeping attack, and the shoulder ornaments symbolizing dragon wings shattered under the fatal leaping slash, scattering like broken feathers. The armor and weapons, forged from Ysera silver and the result of countless priests and craftsmen's painstaking efforts, were as fragile as paper before the warhook, its power pushed to its limit. The warhook's blade pierced through as easily as cutting butter, deeply cutting into the chest and shattering the heart.

Blood gushed from the crack, instantly staining the ground red.

The Soul Splitter lowered his head, glanced at the fallen Dragon Prince, then turned to look at his fallen comrade, the Soul Splitter, not far away. He said nothing, only shook his head, as if sighing at the endless carnage, before strode off to find the next worthy target.

Even though the highest-ranking commander had fallen, the spearmen did not collapse.

They did not abandon their weapons and flee for their lives, nor did they kneel down and beg for mercy out of fear.

Perhaps it was the fervent surge of Kane's curse within their blood that numbed their minds, leaving them with only the choice between killing and death; perhaps it was a deep-seated love for their homeland that made them prefer to die here rather than retreat a single step; perhaps it was because their comrades standing shoulder to shoulder were all their loved ones, relatives, brothers, and nephews; or perhaps they were already entangled by the enemy, unable to retreat even if they wanted to, leaving them only to fight to the death. Even more cruelly, they might have known that falling into Duruci's hands would mean no good end—a fate worse than death.

Of course, it's also possible that they are holding on, stubbornly clinging to life, waiting for reinforcements that are already in sight to arrive and launch a belated but crucial rescue.

In short, whatever the reason, they ultimately did not back down.

They gritted their teeth and fought on, like a crumbling wall that wouldn't fall in a raging fire, stubbornly maintaining their formation and continuing to resist fiercely, ready to fight to the very last moment.

Just as Astarian was about to make a heavy decision, a rapid and chaotic sound of hooves suddenly came from behind. It was a sound that seemed to shatter the earth, mixed with the sound of wind and the scraping of armor, like a fierce torrent approaching.

He turned his head sharply and saw that the newcomer was covered in green armor, with banners fluttering and warhorses galloping.

That was his son, Asniel.

However, when he saw his son's face, which was as pale as a dead man's, his heart skipped a beat, as if a heavy hammer had struck his chest.

"Traitors! Traitors! A bunch of damned traitors!" Asnier rushed to his father's side, and before he had even stopped his warhorse, he shouted angrily, his voice hoarse and full of hatred, as if he were about to tear his throat apart.

"What happened?!" Astarion's expression changed drastically as he urged, but the most unpleasant guess was already surfacing in his mind.

“Miyl…” Asniel’s face was contorted with rage, his eyes bloodshot. “Miyl has taken his men into hiding. Only a small portion of them have followed him.”

Astarion's face once again reflected the color of his armor, and the five dragon princes beside him also changed their expressions drastically. Their eyes were filled with both anger and fear. Then, unable to suppress the churning emotions in their chests, they joined in cursing, their voices hoarse, as if they were spitting out the blood and fire in their hearts, as if they were venting the bitterness and dissatisfaction of being here, which was no different from being in exile.

Miel—the Vaal leader on whom Asur had placed great hopes, the one responsible for the operation of the sacred Vaal Anvil—has now, like Kotek during the Great Schism, brazenly betrayed Asur and his oath.

Astaroth's forehead veins bulged again, each one throbbing as if about to tear his skin apart. His eyes gradually turned bloodshot, the blood vessels spreading like a spiderweb, his vision shifting between clear and dim, as if the world itself was trembling with him. His body convulsed and trembled uncontrollably, cold sweat dripping down his chin, soaking the collar of his armor.

This time, he finally lost his grip on the reins. His hands loosened in trembling, his whole body went limp, and he fell heavily off the horse. The dull thud, accompanied by the impact of his armor against the ground, seemed to strike the hearts of everyone present.

"Father!" Asnier almost roared as he jumped off his horse and rushed to his father's side, desperately supporting him and shaking his body, his voice filled with anxiety and unease.

"My lord!" Amidst the urgent cries, the dragon princes jumped off their horses in a flustered manner.

They knew very well that in Asanir's absence, Astarion was the backbone of the army; if he fell, the army and the battle would be completely over.

A moment later, Astaroth slowly opened his eyes, but those eyes had lost their former majesty and light, leaving only bewilderment and despair. He stared blankly at the gray sky, tears silently welling up in his eyes, his lips trembling, the words that escaped his lips like whispers torn apart with his soul.

"withdraw……"

"Withdraw? Withdraw!" Asniel was suddenly startled, his voice trembling. His words were less of a question and more of a doubt and disbelief. Then, he suddenly looked up at the slope.

At this moment, not a single Asur warrior remained standing on the slope. The three hundred-man spearmen had fought to the very last moment, their final breaths a testament to their resistance.

Duruci and his men moved through pools of blood, cleaning up the battlefield and coldly finishing off enemies while regrouping. Their movements were icy and efficient, like a sharp blade cutting through shredded cloth.

Asnier could see clearly that, if his judgment was correct, the number of Duruchi on the slope had exceeded five hundred. The narrow path was like an inexhaustible spring, from which Duruchi flowed continuously.

"Should we retreat to the Val Anvil and hold out?" he asked urgently, his voice filled with a last glimmer of hope and wishful thinking.

Astaroth slowly shook his head, his eyes vacant, as if looking at a future that was beyond redemption.

"Evacuate...volcanic island...everyone evacuate..."

"What?" Asniel's pupils contracted sharply, his eyes widened to their limit, and then his facial muscles twitched violently, his entire face contorted with rage. He looked at his father with an expression so unfamiliar it was almost unsettling, a mixture of strangeness, anger, and disbelief in his eyes, as if the two of them had just met.

The dragon princes also gasped in surprise, their expressions shifting dramatically, a mixture of shock and indignation. They disagreed with, and even found unacceptable, Astarión's decision.

Because it was not just a retreat, but an admission that the holy site of Caledo, a vital strategic point, might have fallen forever.

“It’s meaningless!” Astaroth suddenly reached out, his five iron-like fingers gripping Asnil’s throat guard tightly. His voice was hoarse with anger and despair, a roar that seemed to tear his throat apart. “The one we swore to protect has betrayed us! Betrayed us! Your brother is dead! The Fang of Death is dead! Otherwise, why hasn’t it appeared yet? Was it attacking the Black Ark? Or was it blocking Druch’s reinforcements? Does it seem like it? We are connected by blood, didn’t you sense anything?”

His words struck Asniel's heart like a hammer, again and again.

"We can't plug this breach! Even if we miraculously manage to do so, the casualties will be unbearable. Once their magical power and dragons are in place, we won't be able to leave!"

Asnir's teeth clenched so tightly they ground together, his cheek muscles trembling with intense rage. He looked up at the sky, where the gray expanse was filled with billowing smoke. Just as his father had coldly asserted—neither his proud brother nor the figure of the Fang of Death appeared.

A conflict surging within him was almost tearing him apart.

He knew his cousin very well; his cousin was proud, and had never been defeated, just as he himself was proud. He firmly believed that one day, he too could awaken the dragon and become a true prodigy of Caledon, just like his cousin.

But now...

"The fight is pointless. We can't hold out until tomorrow, or even until the afternoon."

Astarión's voice was deep and resolute. He spurred himself on, pushed away his son, refused the helping hands offered by the dragon princes around him, and staggered to his feet on his own. His eyes regained their sharpness, like a blade that would not fall even after being bathed in blood. "Caldor is not afraid of battle, but precious strength cannot be wasted here! I will take responsibility!"

He placed his hands on the back of his warhorse, and before mounting, he stopped and looked down at his son, who was lying motionless on the ground.

“Asnir.” He uttered the name, his voice filled with an unwavering command and expectation. “I’m giving you a mission: lead the reinforcements from the Val’s Anvil to the northwest! Forget the baggage and the weapons and armor that we didn’t have time to move. Take the priests who are willing to follow us and go to the northwest to meet us.”

Asniel remained motionless, his eyes vacant, unresponsive as if he had lost his soul. Astarion looked at him, shook his head heavily, then squatted down, stretched out his hands, and roughly but powerfully lifted his son up.

"You must be strong! Listen carefully, your mission is important, even more important than my battle."

His father's voice made Asniel's heart tremble. Finally, as if awakened, his eyes gradually regained focus, and then he nodded heavily, replying in a hoarse but firm voice.

"Yes!"

Astarión gazed at his son, a rare hint of comfort flashing in his eyes. He nodded heavily, then turned to look at one of his adjutants beside him, a young dragon prince.

"You go with him!" he commanded in a deep voice.

After saying that, he began making arrangements.

Deep down, he knew better than anyone that an orderly retreat was far more difficult than an attack. One wrong step and it wouldn't be a retreat, but a complete rout, the destruction of the entire army.

This was unacceptable to him. With the betrayal of the Val priests, the warriors of Caledor had lost their reason to continue fighting here. He would take these warriors, this precious force, back to the Kingdom of Caledor. (End of Chapter)