Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Hey hey hey, Tyrandor and Alaros have returned after settling Kadir in.

Tyrande instinctively touched his chest, the movement so natural it seemed almost thoughtless, but his fingertips met only emptiness. He paused for a moment, then gave a bitter smile.

That hunting bow accompanied him all the way from Azsorloth, from the shadows of the forest to the battlefield where blood and fire now intertwine.

While on the dragon's back, he fired three arrows in quick succession, the arrows flying like lightning. However, in the face of death, he had no choice but to discard the bow. When the battle ended, he thought he could turn back to retrieve it, but instead, he was violently flung away by the dragon's fangs, his entire body tumbling through the air. By the time Dor Blackwing caught him, the bow was long gone.

And so, the hunting bow he had used all this time, the weapon that carried countless memories, was lost.

He sighed, a sigh that contained both regret and a hint of self-mockery.

Then, the bitterness slowly faded, replaced by a sense of relief. He raised the corners of his mouth, his smile carrying weariness, yet also a hint of open-mindedness.

Being alive until now, and still able to stand here and breathe air, is a blessing in itself.

Moreover, a bizarre thought even flashed through his mind: perhaps he could go and look for it after the war, and if he was lucky, he might be able to find the hunting bow, repair it, and continue using it.

After all, it was not an ordinary weapon, but a connection between him and Azsolo Loren, a bond to the past.

Besides, the wound on his right arm had only received the most basic treatment and was still burning painful. Even if he had a bow, he wouldn't be able to draw it many times.

With that thought in mind, he stopped dwelling on it and turned his gaze back to the battlefield before him. At this moment, the scene before him was more worthy of his full attention than a bow.

Are they retreating?

"should?"

Tyrandor and Alaros repeated the conversation between the centurions and tribal chiefs.

"Over there!" During the exchange, Alalos suddenly raised his hand and pointed northeast.

The view from the giant eagle's back was extremely wide, almost encompassing the entire volcanic island and the surrounding battlefield. Even though the volcanic cone towered like a barrier, it could not block their view.

At the edge of the horizon, on the vast wilderness, the movement of the Asur troops was like a rushing river, extremely difficult to conceal.

The sheer scale and imposing presence of three thousand soldiers moving together was overwhelming; it was virtually impossible to miss them.

Unless, of course, a high-ranking spellcaster skilled in the Urku Winds weaves a vast illusion, weaving shadows, mist, and distorted light into a curtain to conceal the army's tracks.

Unfortunately, no...

“He’s got some skills.” Tyrande chuckled softly, his expression growing increasingly serious. He deliberately mimicked Darkus’s tone, but his voice carried a hint of suppressed sarcasm.

Then, he slowly took out a monocular telescope and pointed the lens at the distance.

A moment later, he put down the binoculars, his eyes darkening, his voice filled with surprise and disbelief.

"Such a quick response! They came fast and left fast too. They didn't even need the supplies, equipment, or baggage. Decisive!"

“This…” Alaros was stunned, his face filled with shock. Disbelief and confusion intertwined, leaving him speechless for a moment.

Is that a lot of courage?

The number of Asur's troops he saw with his own eyes was much larger than the intelligence reports indicated, which meant that the Kingdom of Caledo had sent reinforcements to the area before their arrival, and that dragons were among the reinforcements.

But now, they don't even fight, they just turn around and decisively withdraw?
Is this still the style of the Kingdom of Caledon? Is this the Caledon known for its arrogance and fire?

Is this reasonable?

"What is it that made Asur's commander..." He frowned, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, "...a dragon?"

“Not only that, I believe it also involves the reaction within the Vale sect,” Tyrandor replied coldly.

Alalos didn't say anything this time, but remained silent for a moment before slowly nodding.

In Azsorlos, it's an open secret that Dass is the avatar of Vaal, just like Orion and Ariel before him.

Immediately afterward, Tyrandor raised his hand, drew his horn from his waist, and blew it without hesitation. The clear, resonant sound pierced the air, signaling the Eridan Guards below to launch an attack, but they did not respond immediately.

He frowned, then blew the horn three more times, the sound echoing across the battlefield like an urgent urging.

Finally, as if snapping out of his daze, or like someone jolting awake from a deathbed dream, Erwei jumped right out of bed.

Ewei moved like a wild horse.

"Turn around and head to the outpost!" Tyrandor immediately shouted to Dor Blackwing.

Once the intelligence was obtained, there was no point in going any further.

He didn't have his hunting bow, and even if he did, he wouldn't be able to fire many arrows in this situation, let alone deliver a precise and fatal blow. Besides, even if he did fire one, what difference would it make?
Could an arrow really kill the enemy commander?

Could it really throw the enemy's command system into chaos instantly?

He knew very well that it was just wishful thinking.

The commander of Asur in front of him was clearly not the kind of reckless fool. He was calm and restrained, unlike the arrogant, conceited, and conceited dragon rider from before.

In other words, he is dangerous.

If the commander had been riding that dragon, the battle would have immediately taken a turn for the worse, but thankfully that wasn't the case.

Moreover, the Asur archers on the other side are no pushovers, and in addition to archers, there are also ballistae.

If Dol Blackwing were to be injured even slightly, he and Alallos would be instantly trapped in a desperate situation. At that point, they would not only die, but die a humiliating death, perhaps even appearing in military manuals as a cautionary tale, repeatedly recounted as examples of warfare.

Therefore, the most important thing right now is to adjust the deployment.

In other words, it means calling someone.

He knew very well that at this distance, it would be difficult for Erwin to catch up with the retreating Asur troops. Even if he did catch up, he would be held back by the Asur infantry covering the rear.

Without the support of infantry and cavalry, the raiding ships' pursuit would hardly be able to expand their gains. Fortunately, the range of the land-based drones was sufficient to maintain the Seafood Feast's operational radius, but the cost was equally obvious: without the cover of infantry and cavalry, the Seafood Feast would inevitably suffer heavy losses, and might even escalate into an unmanageable mess.

Of course, this is without calculating magic.

And so, Lyrath, piloting the raider, watched with a grim face as the giant eagle completed its turn, its massive form passing through the raider formation and carrying Tyrandor and Alalos backward.

She glanced at it once and then ignored it.

Because right now, she has more urgent and pressing matters to attend to.

However, even with important matters at hand, this could not mask the intense displeasure welling up from the bottom of his heart at this moment.

Lylas was extremely unhappy at this moment, and one could almost feel the suppressed anger churning in her chest.

She commanded a fleet of ten raiding ships that had been maintaining air superiority since its departure, but the sudden appearance of the dragon instantly changed everything.

Her fleet swooped down on the dragon, with three raiding ships crashing into its back and one into its wing.

She was credited for her decisive and swift command, issuing the order to kill the dragon almost immediately, which enabled the raiding ships in the formation to achieve hard-won results.

But her stubbornness wouldn't allow her to stop there.

She was still dissatisfied, no, one could even say resentful.

She knew she should have done better: if her raiding ship had been just a fraction more precise at the moment of impact, if the ram had pierced the dragon's fragile neck bone, then the honor of "slaying the dragon" would have belonged to her, instead of this outcome.

She must do better.

Her surname, Takaia, is itself a heavy responsibility and a trial. She is the daughter of Raine and Elmir, whose glory and fame have always been her constant companions, never giving her a moment's respite.

Her memory remains crystal clear: when she was a child, Dakotas had picked her up, a moment she could never forget, like a branding mark left by fire.

Afterwards, when she displayed a rare second eye, her fate was sealed. She was sent to the Tower of Destruction to study under Anasara. Even more indelible was the fact that Malekith personally instructed her in martial arts while she was in Krakarond. "Child, remember, martial arts and weapons are sometimes more effective than magic."

Those words still echo in her ears.

As the new era arrived, Takaya and the Cold-Eyed Family began planning for the future, betting their bloodline and honor.

As one of the most prominent second-generation heirs, her wide range of choices is the envy of many.

Uncle, father, aunt, maternal uncle, mother, great-aunt...

Everyone around her carries the weight of power, has their own path and will, and awaits her decision.

Ultimately, she resolutely joined the Stormweavers cult.

So she went to Chapeyuto, walking alongside Serene and her future aunt, continuing to learn, accumulate knowledge, and hone her skills.

Therefore, she must do better!
But reality often comes with a cruel sneer, and Morayig's fate has always been cruel.

The raiding ship she was piloting ultimately missed its target.

The ram's bow grazed the dragon's neck, sending up a spray of scales and blood, but failed to penetrate its vital organs. The central mast snapped in the violent impact, crashing into the sea with a dull thud, a mark of defeat.

As the raiding ships passed through the black smoke spewing from the volcanic cone, the thick fog obscured everything like an iron curtain.

She stopped thinking about those irrelevant things and stopped letting her mind linger on regret. Of course, she didn't do what her great-aunt did, sneaking her head out of the ship's side.

Even though this altitude was relatively safe, she knew what the intelligence said—the garrison guarding the Val's Anvil was equipped with Eagle Claw crossbows, and she didn't want to be the unlucky one.

"Report the situation!" Her hoarse but authoritative voice boomed across the deck.

"They're evacuating!"

"The Evil Guards below are in pursuit! But they're too far away!"

"There is a large force to the northeast, the size of which is unknown, and it is moving in the direction from which Asur retreated!"

Captain Erlan shouted as he finished reporting everything he had seen. Then he left the ship's side, turned and looked expectantly at Lylas, awaiting orders.

Lylas glanced at the captain. She knew why he was looking at her like that—it was expectation, it was trust, it was a kind of stubbornness that was almost pleading. But she ignored it and did not explain. Instead, she showed a thoughtful expression.

Although there had been no exchange, she believed that Tyrandor should adjust the deployment. Before the formation was completed and the troops set off, she clearly saw the army's rapid maneuver forces speeding towards them along the side road.

The next moment, the tail flame disappeared, and the raiding ship suddenly changed its trajectory, drifting in the air while drawing a strange arc horizontally.

She approached the ship's side, her sharp gaze fixed on the distant scene. The wind whipped her hair, and the interplay of firelight and shadow in her eyes seemed to bathe her in a chilling light.

Five seconds later, the raiding ship returned to its original trajectory, and its exhaust flames reappeared.

Back at her operating station, she met the gaze of the captain who had turned his head in front of her.

The reason he was called a battalion commander instead of a centurion was because the naval and army organizations were different. The battalion commander in front of him, who came from the army, commanded a total of five hundred-man squads.

It was said to be five hundred-man squads, but if you include the centurions, deputies, buglers, standard bearers, captains, deputy captains, and soldiers, it would be a massive formation of over seven hundred people, a whole square like an iron torrent.

Moreover, the captain who was staring at Lylas was no ordinary person—he was the captain of the First Battalion.

In the army, the first battalion under each corps consists of five double-strength hundred-man squads, also known as the Eagle Flag Battalion! They are the elite of the elite, the most directly subordinate, and a force capable of controlling local battles.

They hold the title of champions, and only the elite can join their ranks, and only seasoned veterans can remain for long.

In those five seconds, the captain, who had also seen the scene in the distance, slowly twitched his lips, revealing a half-smile. That smile contained both a cold, playful glint and an barely suppressed fighting spirit and determination, as if he had already prepared himself to fight to the death.

Similarly, Lylas also wore a half-smile.

That was a retort, and also a response.

But in the end, she didn't suppress her laughter; instead, she laughed out loud, her laughter light and eerie, echoing across the deck.

As she smiled, she slowly reached her right hand toward her neck, her snow-white fingertips brushing against her skin, deftly yet solemnly removing a piece of jewelry.

She walked almost without pausing to the captain and displayed the ornament before him. With a gentle flip of her hand, the ornament lay quietly in her palm as she handed it over.

"What is this?" The captain's voice was deep and solemn, his gaze fixed on him.

“This is for you.” Lylas’s smile remained, but her tone softened, carrying a rare warmth. “It’s a longevity lock, symbolizing good fortune and health. It was given to me by Darkus when I was little, designed by that being and made by Drusala.” (Chapter 72)
The captain's eyes widened suddenly, his pupils contracted, and he was almost shaken to his core.

In his mind, this was far too precious, so precious that he almost dared not touch it. As a member of the Duruci family, everyone knew the names Darkus and Drusara, and of course, that mysterious being.

Upon hearing Daculus's name, the centurion and soldiers beside him involuntarily turned their heads and stared at the uniquely shaped, dazzling ornament.

"This... is too valuable." The captain's voice was low, with a hint of hesitation and awe in his tone.

“It is very valuable.” Lylas nodded, then gave a playful smile. “So, you have to return it to me after the battle.”

The captain remained silent for a moment, his chest heaving slightly. He knew that Lylas had not entrusted him with anything casually, but had placed her life and her trust in his hands.

Without further refusal, his expression gradually turned serious, the solemnity between his brows seeming to suppress all hesitation. Then, he solemnly picked up the ornament, carefully holding it in both hands, as if it were not cold metal, but a weighty vow.

Finally, he slowly hung it around his neck, letting its weight and warmth touch his chest, as if reminding him that he could not back down in this battle.

Seeing this, Lylas let out a soft breath, turned around and returned to the control room. Then, she gave a loud order, her voice clear yet carrying an unquestionable authority.

"Signal! Overload!"

Before the words were even finished, a deep rumble came from below the deck. The ship accelerated suddenly as if propelled by an invisible giant hand, the entire hull trembled, the air was torn apart, and the exhaust flames left a long blue trail.

Astarion looked up at the raiding ship that was flying northwest with a long trail of flame, his expression changing, shining brightly in contrast to the colors reflected in his armor.

"This is the raiding ship?" he murmured, his voice filled with disbelief and a slight tremor.

This was the first time he had ever seen raiding ships in person, and there were so many of them. A number flashed through his mind—twenty-six ships.

There should have been thirty ships before the dragon appeared. Now, four of them have sunk to the bottom of the sea along with the massive carcass of the Fang of Death, becoming cold wreckage and foam.

He wasn't completely unaware of what was going on. He had heard about the raiding ships from the navy and the Kingdom of Itien a long time ago, and had a vague impression of them.

However, those words were always veiled, vague, and unspoken.

This was seen by many at the time as a bluff, and the dragon princes of Caledon sneered, believing it was nothing more than an excuse fabricated by the navy to cover up its own defeat.

But now, reality is staring us in the face.

Those raiding ships, hurtling through the sky like raptors, roared their engines and blazed their tails, their presence enough to shatter all past arrogance and contempt without any explanation.

His heart sank, realizing with certainty that the Kingdom of Caledo would ultimately pay a terrible price for such blind recklessness.

As a soldier and, more importantly, as a commander with tactical acumen, he quickly understood the raiding ship's intentions.

He knew why the raiding ships hadn't attacked immediately, understood what they were brewing, and knew the danger was approaching like a storm. He suppressed the agitation in his chest, no longer staring at the raiding ships, but turning to the dragon prince beside him.

"Go and meet up with the reinforcements now!" His voice suddenly rose, his tone firm and urgent. "Get the cavalry moving! I don't care about casualty figures, I just want that volcanic cone!"

However, his shouts did not receive the expected response.

The dragon prince did not turn around immediately, but stood still, his eyes fixed on the distant sky.

What made Astaroth's heart tighten even more was that it wasn't just this one; the other dragon princes were the same. Their faces were frozen, their bodies stiff, as if their souls were firmly gripped by that scene.

He suddenly turned his head and looked in the direction they were looking.

The next instant, his pupils contracted sharply, and his face once again shone brightly in the light reflected from his armor. (End of Chapter)