Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The only response to Alaros was Tyrandor's dry laugh. Against the backdrop of the horrific scene in the distance, the laughter sounded particularly eerie, like a chilling wind sweeping across the desolate wasteland in the dead of night, sending a shiver down one's spine.

“If the army…” Alalos raised his hand and slowly pointed to the surging scene in the distance, his voice tinged with hesitation.

“They have a limited combat radius unless the entire land-based aircraft is moved ashore.” Tyrandor then sighed, his tone a mixture of helplessness and indifference. “Light and heavy ballistae, raiding ships, spellcasters, and the supporting buildings and fortifications, spear against spear, sword against sword.”

As he said this, he spread his hands, his movements seemingly casual, yet as if he were announcing some cruel conclusion.

"Unfortunately, they have nothing."

"Their fate was sealed." Alaros nodded softly, with an indescribable sadness in his voice.

This time, Tyrande did not respond, but instead slowly shifted his gaze downwards.

Very close.

The cannons on the Demon Crab's shell began to fire, their heavy armor rippling with a deep tremor. A bowstring snapped, and arrows shot through the air. The charging Evil Guards maintained a perfectly safe distance from the Demon Crab, subtly adjusting their formation as they rushed forward. Their ranks rose and fell, yet remained perfectly orderly, as if making final preparations on the brink of death.

He shifted his gaze and looked towards the direction further back.

The first three hundred-man army squads were still running desperately, their steps hurried, as if they were trying to squeeze out every last bit of strength from their bodies. Meanwhile, the Disaster Walker tanks that had charged out had already pulled to the sides, their iron hooves grinding the ground, their wheels kicking up gravel and dirt that flew everywhere.

Meanwhile, more Disaster Walker chariots were pouring out of the narrow path. On the slope, chaos and order were strangely intertwined—chariots, wounded soldiers unable to fight, and llamas running amok created a scene that was almost absurd yet extremely realistic.

As he gazed ahead again, swarms of sharp-toothed eels began to disperse, darting like shadows through the gaps in the battlefield.

“This is none of our business.” Tyrandor pointed further away, his tone casual, yet carrying a chilling calmness. “Let’s go over there.”

Following his direction, Alalos's gaze fell upon the vaguely visible raiding ship. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"them……"

“Yes, just as you think,” Tyrandor replied first, his voice low but carrying an undeniable certainty.

"Are you all so casual?" Alaros frowned, seemingly finding it hard to understand.

“Otherwise?” Tyrande retorted, a hint of impatience flashing in his eyes. Without waiting for Alalos to press further, he continued his lecturing explanation, “To paraphrase Darkus: we can’t dampen their enthusiasm, can we? Whether it’s Tariendan or Thrawn, they only assign strategic tasks, define the war objectives, and determine the necessary supplies. As for tactical matters…”

He paused, as if deliberately teasing Alaros's thoughts, and then added a sentence.

"You can think of the strategy as me, as your father, giving you funds so you can choose a weapon that suits you..."

Alalos was about to defend himself, saying that perhaps he had been away from Azsorloth for too long, and the way he acquired the weapon..., but the words caught in his throat as he suddenly realized something. His eyes sharpened, and a hint of anger flashed in his voice.

Are you taking advantage of me?

"You're only just realizing it?" Tyrandor raised an eyebrow, his eyes filled with undisguised mockery.

"You!" Alalos couldn't help but point at him and scold him angrily.

“Then let’s try something easier to understand.” Tyrandor shrugged, his voice light and tinged with a hint of mockery. “I’ll give you some money to make lunch.”

"What ingredients to buy and what dishes to cook—that's the tactic, and I'll decide that. You just need to sit down and have lunch; that's the strategy."

“Yes!” Tyrandor nodded, and as if afraid that Alalos hadn’t understood, he added with emphasis, “That’s how it is right now. The key is how you prepare lunch; that’s the most important thing.”

“It’s a little hard to imagine.”

“You haven’t spent enough time in Nagaros,” Tyrandor replied in a deep voice, patting the heavy map bag at his waist with a hint of mockery in his tone. “Am I supposed to write an order now? And then throw it down, ordering the artillery crew to move the ballistae ten meters to the left?”

Alalos was taken aback, then chuckled, a smile crossing his tired face.

"I will fight alongside my warriors!" Tyrandor did not smile; instead, his expression turned serious, and the will between his brows was as cold and hard as a blade.

"Can you still fight?" Alalos's gaze fell on Tyrandor's wounds.

“Don’t you still have me? You can’t just stand there and watch, can you?” Tyrandeur asked calmly.

"You! You..." Alaros was speechless for a moment, swallowing the words that were on the tip of his tongue.

"I am not the same person I was more than fifty years ago," Tyrandor interrupted in a low voice, his tone carrying an indescribable sense of emotion, as if the heavy memories of the past were intertwined with the bloody battlefield of the present.

At this moment, Dol Blackwing flipped and turned high in the sky, adjusting its direction and trying to avoid the rolling dark clouds, flapping its wings and heading towards the direction of the raiding ship formation.

Typically, the Sharp-Toothed Eels travel in groups of six. Their long, narrow backs can accommodate one rider, led by a highly trained trainer, with the other five serving as escorting guards. They are the reserve force, selected future Soulbreakers.

These groups typically operate and fight in pairs, forming a squad.

In battle, they are mobile and flexible, either concealed among the waves waiting for their opportunity, or piercing into the enemy ranks in an instant, completing their kill with a lightning-fast advance. This flexible and versatile formation is precisely the sharp weapon upon which the seafood feast relies.

Yes, the position of the sharp-toothed eel in the seafood feast is almost equivalent to that of cavalry.

They charge into the battlefield in a loose yet sophisticated formation, capable of piercing the enemy's heart like a spear, or striking and retreating swiftly with a fierce attack. Their nature dictates that they cannot form a neat, steel torrent like heavy knights on land, but rather rely on their agile, serpentine bodies to weave and dart, dodging the formidable barrier of enemy shields and spears with evasive maneuvers.

Their elegant and agile figures are like lightning in the sea, their serpentine bodies twisting and turning in the waves, as elusive as shadows.

But once they bite, it becomes a symphony of blood and broken bones.

The sharp fangs of the fanged eel can easily crush bones, and even armor can crumble under their bites. Their teeth are not just a natural weapon, but more like an extension of the blades and spears in the hands of a rider—sharp, deadly, and merciless.

Their bites and tail strikes alone are enough to make them terrifying war beasts. But their most chilling ability is their incredible electric shock. Even in turbulent seawater, this current can be precisely delivered, instantly stunning large prey. The struck creature will be pounced on and torn apart by the sharp-toothed eel in the next moment, its struggles turning into futile cries, until it is bitten and swallowed whole.

Regardless of whether the scales of the sharp-toothed eel are deep blue, brownish-yellow, blood red, jet black, or have an eerie silver sheen, generating electricity is a common characteristic of all of them.

That is why the Tidecallers summon mist on the battlefield, combining the fog with the electric properties of the sharp-toothed eel to turn everything in front of the enemy into a death trap in the blur.

Meanwhile, those warriors, somewhere between the Evil Guardians and the Soul Splitters, wielding spears and round shields and clad in full armor, surged forward like an iron torrent in the sea alongside the Sharp-Toothed Eels.

The term "war spear" is actually a general term. Some are no different from the Asley spear, sharp and simple; some are tridents, capable of tearing a wider killing trajectory in the water; some wield double-headed forks, striking left and right, leaving the enemy nowhere to escape; a very few elites even wield halberds, heavy and fierce.

However, what is truly chilling is that these spears are not just cold weapons; they all possess the characteristic of 'electricity'.

Regardless of its shape, what it ultimately releases is a flickering electric arc.

Hmm, stun gun, electric baton...

The round shield with the Matheran emblem in the center, like the spear, creates an arc-shaped electric barrier that helps them evade enemy attacks when the electric current combines with the shield's energy channels and patterns.

This barrier is not a thin, indistinct image, but rather ripples in the air like a flowing curtain of water, refracting distorted light and giving the illusion that the attack is being swallowed up and dragged into an abyss.

Because of this protective force field, the warriors have a greater ability to survive; when they are on the battlefield, it is as if they are wearing another layer of invisible armor.

The armor is full-body, completely covered, and made of the latest Kise steel, mixed with sea gold, and more. Like the weapons and shields, the Tidecaller has engraved isolation channels and patterns on the armor to prevent the rider on its back from collapsing first when the Sharp-Toothed Eel generates electricity.

The pattern subtly reveals a blue-white glow, as if pulsating ocean currents are flowing inside the steel, making these riders look less like ordinary people and more like guardians of the deep ocean.

Of course, this is the equipment of one group. The equipment of the other group is very similar to this group, except that the spears have been replaced with blades. The blades flash with an electric arc in the air, like a bolt of lightning that may tear the sky apart at any time.

Thus, the surviving spearmen, those not shrouded in mist, witnessed a scene they could never comprehend in their lifetime.

The thrusting spears were blocked by the shield's protective force field, just like piercing water. The tips of the spears were frozen and slowed down, and all their power was drained in that instant, exposing them to the enemy.

The next second, the rather brave spearman felt a sudden numbness throughout his body, his vision went black, and he collapsed to the ground, spinning as if the world were spinning. He didn't even have time to shout; only a faint guttural sound remained before he fell.

His armor was pierced by the rider's spear, and electricity instantly surged into his body through the spearhead. Sparks exploded from the gaps in the armor plates, as if trying to set his body ablaze.

"Father!"

The spearman behind him let out a mournful cry, a desperate shout, and a trembling look of despair as he thrust his spear forward. However, compared to his father, his strike was noticeably slower.

The yellow, sharp-toothed eel twisted its body, its scales, covered by segmented armor, shimmering as it deftly dodged the attack and opened its massive mouth full of sharp teeth.

The next moment, the spearman's helmet was bitten by the fanged eel's turned head. The sound of cracking, metal breaking apart, and the hissing of electricity spreading followed. The armor became meaningless in an instant, and a terrifying sound of flesh and fire mingling came from inside the helmet.

Such scenes played out repeatedly, one after another, as if the Pale Queen herself were moving through the battle formation. As the different colored fanged eels led riders wielding spears through the formation of spearmen, the already incomplete formation became even more fragmented and dilapidated, having lost all its defensive capabilities.

Even more cruelly, Asur, who was not on the path of this group of sharp-toothed eels, had no time to catch his breath before he had to face the second group of riders wielding battle blades and their sharp-toothed eels that followed him.

The flanks, the top, no direction is safe anymore.

The swift-swimming, sharp-toothed eels seemed to have completely taken control of the battlefield, attacking at will, while the spearmen were pushed to the limit: standing still and passively defending was not an option, nor was turning around and running away.

If you choose to run away, the sharp-toothed eel will appear behind you. With a sudden swing of its head, the eel opens its huge mouth and bites you in half, blood and sparks scattering in mid-air.

Standing still and passively defending themselves was futile. Their spears couldn't pierce the flowing barrier; instead, they exposed themselves. And the weapons of the riders on the backs of the sharp-toothed eels would cause the riders to convulse and twitch in an electric shock as soon as they touched their armor, completely rendering them unable to fight.

Some of the still-organized spearmen, led by their officers, chose to form ranks and fight back desperately. But their fate... was still tragic.

The combined electric current of a group of sharp-toothed eels could blind or stun an entire enemy force. A blinding white light exploded in the center of the battlefield, like a new sun rising nearby, engulfing everything in a white inferno. In mere moments, the entire formation shattered like a canvas torn by a storm.

Of course, this is still the best-case scenario; many of the spearmen still struggling in the fog don't even know how they died.

Their eyes were blinded by the dazzling flashes, their ears were filled with the crackling of electricity, and their minds were filled with only the faint, terrifying figures, spears that suddenly pierced from the depths of the mist, or blades that fell silently.

As the sharp-toothed eels disappear into the mist, it's as if they've truly returned to their homeland. With their cruel instincts and expert hunting rhythm, they nimbly dart through the Asur region, as if they were walking on the seabed.

Tragic is the epitome of this scene.

There was no glory, no order, no resistance worth remembering; there was only horrific suffering—horrific deaths, agonizing screams, and pale faces blurred in the blood and mist.

The attackers involved were far more than just the sharp-toothed eel; the real seafood feast had only just begun.

Longtailed war sharks are charging into the battlefield with their riders on their backs.

Tactically, these sharks were originally powerful tools for hunting large sea monsters on the seabed; they were born to fight against colossal creatures. Once they took to the skies, they became the main force against dragons, their explosive power enough to tear apart dragon wings. However, at this moment, when there were neither sea monsters nor dragons as targets, their bloodthirsty ferocity did not cease.

They followed the sharp-toothed eel like shadows, clinging to the breath of the battlefield, waiting for their chance.

So, once the sharp-toothed eels had disrupted the spearmen's formation, the longtail war sharks pounced like hyenas smelling blood. Under the control of their trainers, they did not rashly snatch the prey, but patiently waited for the gaps, remnants, and wounded left by the sharp-toothed eels' charge before opening their massive jaws, filled with sharp teeth, to tear apart those who were powerless to defend themselves.

This ruthless division of labor turned the already crumbling defense line into a slaughterhouse, a grand feast shrouded in mist, where flesh, bones, broken helmets and spears mixed together to create a hellish scene.

Meanwhile, some of the spellcasters controlling the raiding ships were performing fancy maneuvers, turning around on the spot or whipping their tails backward, like dancers maneuvering the massive hulls with the agility of swift eagles. Accompanied by the roar of the arcane orb, an arc-shaped electric barrier suddenly unfolded around the ship, like a blue-white cocoon of lightning enveloping the vessel, with incessant flashes of electricity.

The atmosphere on deck was entirely different, a cacophony of shouts, curses, and groans of disgust. Each time the raiding ship lurched and tumbled, crew and passengers were thrown about, vomiting, thuds against the deck railings, and curses filling the air. But no one dared blame the caster, for everyone knew this was the only way to save them from death.

Asur is certainly not stupid.

This volcanic cone was not only a treacherous pass leading to the Dragon's Spine Mountains, but also the most likely landing point for Duruci. For this reason, some of the Eagle Claw ballistae were deployed here. With horns and shouts, the ballistae were taut like angry bowstrings, unleashing a dense barrage of split arrows, like dark clouds pressing down overhead.

The electric current of the sharp-toothed eel is an inherent property, while the electric barrier of the raider relies entirely on the arcane orb.

Unfortunately, no matter how dazzling the barrier was, it could only turn the split arrows into a sky full of sparks, and it couldn't deal with those single giant arrows that flew in a straight line with great force.

As for ordinary arrows?
Falling onto the ship's hull would only make a clattering sound like raindrops, achieving nothing.

What's truly troublesome are the magical arrows mixed in, which often manage to penetrate the gaps in the electrical barrier.

Fortunately, the raiding ship was sturdy enough that even if the energy caused a disturbance, it wouldn't be enough to shake the hull. Unless, by sheer bad luck, a magical arrow happened to strike the box containing the Arcane Orb, causing it to explode instantly.

Thus, the raiding ships resembled armed helicopters, sometimes flipping and circling, sometimes turning around on the spot, sometimes whipping their tails backward, dodging while retaliating with their shipborne ballistae and magic. Bolts streaked across the sky like meteors, meeting Asur's rain of arrows.

However, even with such a dazzling display, some raiding ships were still hit. After all, Asur was no pushover. Once he realized what was happening, Asur stopped using split arrows and started using giant arrows instead.

The giant arrow, carrying the force of thunder, pierced through parts of the ship's hull and embedded itself in the deck, nearly pinning soldiers to the spot along with the deck. Fortunately, none of these hits struck critical locations; the arcane sphere and energy conduits remained unaffected, and the ship's hull was barely held together.

Meanwhile, between the Asur garrison and the volcanic cone, a small-scale battle, or rather a one-sided massacre, is quietly taking place.

The cavalry escorts sent by Astarion were intercepted.

The method of interception highlights its ruthlessness.

The raiding ships, like raptors, unleashed a barrage of fire on the scattered cavalry.

The most conspicuous dragon prince, clad in dazzling red and green armor, sat atop a tall and handsome warhorse; he should have been the spearhead and glory of the entire cavalry. Yet, the moment the raiding ships launched their long-range attack, he became the most obvious prey.

Dozens of crossbow bolts flew toward him at once, not turning him and his warhorse into a pile of pincushions lying on the ground, but rather scattering his body and mount in pieces, as if carefully dismantling a work of art, with armor plates, blood, and bone fragments scattered everywhere.

As the raiding ships gradually lowered their altitude and began to maneuver in a dispersed manner, it was like catching greasy pigs in the mud.

The cavalrymen desperately turned their horses around, either to retaliate with arrows or to try to dodge the approaching ships, but whether they accelerated or dispersed, it all seemed futile.

Do not!
This is more like a zookeeper catching an antelope that has escaped from its enclosure, except that the raiding ship's hunting instincts and experience far surpass those of any zookeeper.

In fact, the escort cavalry was not many, totaling only about thirty riders.

Under the relentless barrage of crossbow fire, harpoon crossbows, and repeating crossbows, and after the raiding ships occasionally rammed and crushed them, and after a few cavalrymen launched a final charge against the raiding ships, the thirty-odd men were like thirty thin bamboo shoots, broken and shattered bit by bit. Metal armor plates were torn apart, warhorses fell with neighs, and the riders didn't even have time to shout before becoming scattered pieces of flesh and armor on the ground.

In just a few moments, the number of riders had been reduced from over thirty to single digits.

Upon reaching this point, the hunting operation came to an abrupt halt.

It wasn't because Trucchi showed mercy, but because the real, fierce battle was escalating on the other side of the volcanic cone, requiring these raiding ships to immediately change course and provide support.

Then, the fleet suddenly rose, like raptors that had finished their hunt taking flight again, leaving behind a devastated slaughterhouse. Only a few cavalrymen remained on the ground, their eyes filled with disbelief, staggering and scattering—they might survive the day, but the memory of this moment would linger in their hearts like a venomous snake, never to be banished.

The long-range fire positions of the volcanic cone were eliminated, marking the collapse of the forward fire network and signifying the start of the next phase of the operation—the air assault operation officially began.

The captain slowly raised his hand, first patting the junction of his neck and chest. The heavy armor emitted a deep, resonant sound, like a ritual reminding him that he was still alive and standing on the battlefield. Clinging tightly to the back of his armor was the amulet Lylas had lent him.

Then, he lowered his head, his gaze falling on the pinnacle of his breastplate. It was a metal pinnacle filled with memories and honors, where several badges, polished to a gleaming shine, hung.

There are medals commemorating the First Battle of Gorond, the Second Battle of Gorond, and the Battle of Hal Gonsi; in addition, there are several battle medals, service year medals, and medals symbolizing personal honor. Each one is not just cold metal, but is engraved with stories of sweat, blood, and glory.

However, of all the badges, the one he cherished most was the seemingly unremarkable one—the Chapeyuto Holiday Medal.

His thoughts then drifted back to the past.

Born into a commoner family in Nagarond, he grew up in that dark land, spending his childhood and youth there. Later, he came to the Black Ark of Admiral Elaine Annihilation—the Desolate City—where he was just one of millions of ordinary soldiers, insignificant and nameless.

If there's anything worth mentioning, it's that his martial arts skills are slightly outstanding, but outstanding martial arts skills are not uncommon in Nagarus.

Until that year's Chapeyuto holiday.

He was selected to be one of the soldiers representing the Wasteland in the competition.

It was a grand event that brought together the strongest people, where glory and status were amplified to the extreme.

Unfortunately, he didn't make it to the end.

In that arena, there were far too many opponents stronger than him, far too many well-organized battle groups that cooperated as one. He was defeated, and could only feel regret and self-blame, pondering day after day whether he should have joined the admiral's family guard.

However, just as that bleak and narrow path in life was about to take shape, fate suddenly took a dramatic turn.

A new era has arrived!
The admiral was ultimately purged, and the once high and mighty rulers turned to blood and ashes, but none of this had anything to do with him. He never became a guardian of Elaine's family; all those plans remained only in his mind, never put into practice. Because of this, he did not perish with the old forces, but instead gained an opportunity amidst the brutal tide.

Thanks to his years of service and the Chapeyuto Holiday Medal, he had an edge over others.

That step set him apart and made him a centurion.

As time went by, as his studies deepened, and as the army continued to expand and be tempered, he rose through the ranks step by step, eventually becoming a battalion commander—the battalion commander of the Eagle Flag Battalion.

He took a deep breath, his chest trembling slightly from the memories of the past. His gaze shifted to his side, where the standard-bearer was gripping the eagle flag tightly.

At the top of the flagpole rests a heavy base, upon which sits a pure gold eagle statue. It is a symbol of majesty and protection: the eagle spreads its wings, its head firmly turned to the left, its right talon in front and its left talon behind, as if ready to pounce at any moment.

This is no ordinary carving; it symbolizes Tarion, the ancestor of the giant eagles and companion of Asuyan.

As for the eagle flag itself, it was even more solemn.

It is a double-headed flag, composed of four pieces of beautiful silk, arranged symmetrically in pairs, hanging on both sides of the flagpole, with the top connected by a horizontal bar extending from below the base.

In the center of one of the flags is a striking silver rhombus, with two triangular blocks above and below it in black and purple respectively, standing diagonally opposite each other, like intersecting marks of fate.

Black represents Duruci; purple symbolizes Malekith.

The two colors intertwine and interweave along the edge of the rhombus, creating both conflict and unity.

Olive tassels adorn the black and purple blocks, symbolizing resilience and victory in battle. At the very center of each olive tassel is the unique emblem of the Eagle Flag Battalion, a mark of honor belonging only to them.

At the heart of the silver rhombus, their very soul is inscribed: one side reads "Courage and Discipline," while the other clearly marks the legion to which this Eagle Banner Battalion belongs. All the text is meticulously embroidered in gold thread, shining like an unquenchable vow in the sunlight.

The other flag is similar, but the silver diamond-shaped part is inscribed with honors consisting of the year, location, and battle name.

Those lines of cold handwriting, like the blood and oaths of soldiers, were firmly imprinted on the cloth. Every stroke, every line, was a testament to iron and fire, a legacy left behind when a soldier fell.

Although the 15th Group Army was established relatively early, due to the special positioning of the group army, it does not serve as the core when participating in combat, but rather as a support, supplement, and filler.

They don't often stand at the very center of the battlefield, not the decisive spear that wins all the praises, but more like a silent shield and backbone, sent up when needed to fill the gaps.

Nevertheless, they were present in every upheaval. They were absent from all five large-scale battles against the chaotic waves that had taken hold of Naggaroth, but that was all there was to it…

The battalion commander stared at the honor on the flag, his eyes sliding over the lines of writing, as if he saw his former comrades-in-arms and the names recorded therein.

He was silent for a moment, then smiled. His smile contained a touch of desolation, a hint of stubbornness, and an indescribable sense of relief.

After today, the honor on this flag will be renewed.

Whether they live or die, at least their blood will fill the void on this flag.

The battle escalated rapidly from the very beginning.

This is not a wilderness battlefield, nor beneath city walls, but rather a narrow terrain within a volcanic cone, where sulfur and ash permeate the air, and the pungent smell of gunpowder fills the air, making every breath feel like swallowing a knife.

The guards of this volcanic cone are not spearmen or archers, but rather the "Tal Sarn Guards" who use a combination of weapons.

They are standing troops, stationed year-round in Tar-Sarn, and are truly elite infantry, no different from the Tar-Iris Spire Guards of the Kingdom of Iris.

The force consisted of five hundred-man squads. Three of them remained in Tar Sarn, while the squads now guarding the volcanic cone were led by another of Astarion's nephews, who had come with Asanil the previous night.

This young dragon prince, dressed in striking red and green armor, rode on his warhorse with his long sword held high, and should have been a beacon of morale.

However, the ballistae on the raiding ship gave him no chance.

He was targeted, locked on, and riddled with bullets from the very first moment of the battle, his entire body and horse shattered to pieces. Who could blame him? His attire was too conspicuous. His gleaming armor, to the enemy, was like a torch burning in the night, attracting the deadliest firepower.

Even so, this did not prevent the guards from launching a desperate counterattack even without their supreme commander.

They did not panic or break apart; they simply gritted their teeth and raised their weapons.

Because they knew what Trucchi wanted to do, they knew what Trucchi's goals were.

They knew how important this place was, and they knew they would die, but if the volcanic cone fell, their deaths would be meaningless.

Therefore, all they could do was let this rocky ground be stained with the enemy's blood until they fell one by one. (End of Chapter)