Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Each swing carries the power to tear through the air, as if even mountains would be cleaved in two.

The captain's shoulders rotated, and the blade spun and cut like a windmill, the whistling sound lingering in the air. His close footsteps left the enemy nowhere to hide, each step like a hammer driven into the battlefield.

The Asurs attempted to launch a siege, their spears and swords clashing as they lunged at him, but he always anticipated their movements—dodge, block, and counterattack, his actions swift and decisive, like a ruthless hunter capturing his prey with precision, his cold eyes filled only with a thirst for slaughter.

As he charged forward, a long trail of carnage gradually spread across the slope: shields were cleaved in two, broken weapons lay scattered, and armor was twisted beyond recognition by the powerful impact.

The air was filled with wails and curses, a suffocating noise, all of which was drowned out by the captain's storm-like footsteps and slashes, creating an extremely oppressive atmosphere.

An Asur attempted a flank attack, charging forward with a desperate roar, only to be struck hard on the visor by the captain's sword hilt in an instant. The sound of metal clashing against bone echoed across the battlefield. The guard's head jolted violently, his vision went black, and he immediately lost his balance and staggered backward.

Seeing this, another guard swung his short sword, attempting to stop the unstoppable killing momentum. But the captain changed his stance, suddenly cutting into the inside of the short sword, the blade sweeping back and sparks flying as it cleaved the sword in two. He then felled the enemy to the ground, the armor groaning under the impact.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and the metallic heat of metal, as if the entire battlefield were ablaze.

The captain was like a sharp whirlwind, every move he made was incredibly decisive, every strike took away the enemy's life, and every spin forced the surrounding Asur into chaos.

Behind him, the standard-bearer and the soldiers who had just jumped from the side of the ship quickly filled in, spreading out to the left and right around their captain to form a sharp offensive chain, like a tightening iron net, firmly forcing the enemy back. The Asur tried to resist, but under the pressure of the formation, every opening was instantly seized, and every hesitation meant death.

Meanwhile, more Duruci figures appeared on the battlefield.

Navy and army, their dense formations like a tide.

Interspersed among them were elite units like Kledan and Soulbreakers—their presence like sharp spears erected on the battlefield, piercing and awe-inspiring. The Duruchi quickly formed a tightly linked, formidable formation centered around these elites, leaving the Asur's guards helpless.

A total of twenty-six raiding ships were deployed, each operated by a spellcaster and accompanied by a squad of Evil Guards consisting of a captain and soldiers, plus twelve passengers.

Therefore, in terms of numbers, the Durucci had an overwhelming advantage. Nearly six hundred men were engaged in the battle, and apart from the gun crews still operating the bow ballistae, the rest of the Eurasian guards had jumped off the warships and appeared on the battlefield in organized units.

The armored waves and the cold, stern gazes converged into a chilling tide.

Asur's side only had about two hundred people. They were initially ravaged by ballistae and magic, and then suffered continuous losses due to various disadvantages in terrain, numbers, and formations. In the end, they were forced to engage in close combat with Duruchi.

So these guards, with nowhere to run and no intention of fleeing, howled and struggled like trapped beasts amidst blades and blood. They stood back to back, shields raised and spears wielding, roaring that they would perish with the invaders, but soon, a tidal wave of darkness pressed in, completely engulfing them.

However, in their desperate situation, their reinforcements finally arrived.

When Tyrandor and Alaros appeared on the ground, the seven knights charged.

They were Astaroth's squire cavalry, originally an elite force of over thirty riders, but after being surrounded and attacked by raiding ships, only seven riders remained who could still fight.

Although the dragon prince leading the troops had fallen, and most of their comrades had turned to blood and dust, they did not flee, nor hesitate. Only the thunderous sound of hooves and the straight-lined spears pointed directly at the enemy lines remained. They chose to continue their mission, knowing they would die, but still wanting to buy precious time for the main force that was about to arrive.

At this moment, class and such things no longer matter. Identity, bloodline, and origin are all submerged in swords and determination. These seven riders can be called the "Seven Knights".

Holding their spears high, they formed a relatively tight formation, like a desperate, all-or-nothing torrent. The iron hooves of their warhorses slammed down, splashing mud and blood, their deafening roars echoing across the trembling hillside.

Disregarding their own lives, they steeds, increasing their speed inch by inch until it reached its maximum, facing the ruthless Duruci who had already occupied the hillside, launching a desperate upward attack on the enemy.

However, fate did not favor this heroic act.

The corpses of their comrades, scattered across the slope, served as a death knell, becoming an obstacle that had to be overcome. The cold flesh and mud halted the charge, forcing the warhorses to abruptly halt their rapid gallop. The rhythm of the backward attack slowed, and the horses' hooves could no longer strike the earth with the thunderous force of thunder.

The Seven Knights' charge was destined to encounter heavy obstacles.

Duruci had been coldly observing everything. The moment the enemy was spotted, the soldiers on the outer perimeter showed no panic. Instead, they moved in unison, quickly forming a formidable formation. At the same time, the artillery on the raiding ship was in position. The bowstrings snapped, and cold iron arrows were launched into place. The ballistae's icy eyes were fixed on the path ahead of the Seven Knights.

The next moment, the string rang out, and the air was suddenly torn apart.

Just as the Seven Knights' lances were about to touch the Duruchi formation, the first volley of crossbow bolts roared down. The split bolts rained down like a storm, tearing the flesh and blood of warhorses and riders to shreds.

Five riders and their horses fell almost simultaneously into pools of blood during the charge. The sound of armor slamming into the ground, mixed with the cracking of bones and screams, instantly flooded the entire slope, and the muddy water, already saturated with blood, was once again soaked through.

Only two riders on the edge of the formation survived the chaos. They roared and spurred their horses forward, carving their way into the heart of Duruci's formation.

Despite their admirable and moving courage, their good fortune came to an end.

Duruci did not choose to confront them head-on. His shield wall instantly opened, and the ruthless warriors vanished like a black tide retreating. A narrow, U-shaped space suddenly unfolded before them—a deliberate trap, a product of cold-bloodedness and calculation.

The two riders seemed to be dragged by chains, rushing into this deadly place.

The next moment, Duruci's movements were like sharp, iron teeth, closing and tightening, trapping them inside.

Warriors wielding shields and spears charged forward first, their movements fierce, their spears aimed straight for the vital areas not covered by the warhorses' armor. The spear tips pierced flesh with unerring accuracy, tearing open bloody wounds. Close behind were soldiers carrying heavy weapons, wielding giant axes and maces, mercilessly smashing the warhorses' leg bones, the cracking sound like a piercing bone flute.

One horse, its abdomen pierced by a spear, neighed violently and leaped high into the air, its blood gushing out like a fountain, splattering the enemy's face and shield; another warhorse's forelegs were shattered by the heavy blow of a spiked club, the sound of cracking bones accompanied by a mournful cry, and the warhorse collapsed to its knees, convulsing uncontrollably.

A cacophony of screams, curses, and the clashing of metal on the hillside suddenly coalesced into a deafening roar. Two warhorses were mercilessly torn apart, their screams tearing through the air.

The two riders tried to do something; they swung their guns, parried, roared, and struggled, their hearts burning with an inextinguishable honor and a fierce will, trying to carve a bloody path with their last strength.

However, Duruci gave them no chance. The shield wall suddenly closed, ruthlessly sealing them off completely. Weapons of all kinds attacked from all directions—swords, axes, spearheads, maces—one after another, sparks flying from the clash of metal, flesh and blood being mercilessly torn apart by the steel's blows.

"For Caledo!"

"For glory!"

This was their final cry, hoarse yet resolute, but it shattered instantly amidst the barrage of spears and heavy axes. The next moment, the cry was completely swallowed up, blood turned into mist and filled the air, shattered armor and broken bones crumbled in despair.

After the blood mist dissipated, only shattered warhorses, fallen lances, and blood-stained shields remained on the battlefield. The last two of the Seven Knights ultimately failed to break through the layers of chilling, merciless killing intent.

The hillside fell silent once more, with only the rusty, bloody scent lingering in the wind.

In the distance, Asniel watched this scene with eyes blazing with rage, his back teeth practically grinding to powder. He was in a strange state. His body trembled uncontrollably from extreme tension and anger, his eyes lost their former color, and the once vibrant world was fading. Everything in his eyes gradually changed from bright colors to cold, hard black and white, as if fate itself was ruthlessly stripping away his last hope.

"Don't hesitate! There's no time to stand around." A dragon prince rode up on his horse, suddenly swung his armored fist, and slammed it hard into Asnir's back.

A dull, metallic clang exploded within the armor, the reverberating sensation traveling up the spine to the brain, almost dragging Asnir out of his daze. Then, a deafening shout echoed in his ears, like thunder rolling across the sky. He jolted awake, exhaling a long-suffocated breath, as if suddenly freed from suffocation. He abruptly looked up, as if snapping back to reality.

He turned his head and looked at the dragon prince. He could clearly see the suppressed anxiety and impatience in the other's eyes. Without any unnecessary communication or wasting any words, he just gritted his teeth and then turned his head away, his eyes shooting like arrows towards the direction of the garrison.

However, the unfortunate truth came like a bucket of cold water, and he could see nothing.

At the edge of his vision were rows of dark volcanic cones, densely packed across the wasteland, like solidified wounds and sharp teeth on the earth, separating him from his father. The uneven terrain blocked his view, as if fate was deliberately mocking his slowness.

He wanted to complete the mission his father had entrusted to him, to support the troops his father led, and to fight alongside his father, even if it meant dying in the wasteland, leaving no trace of his body, he wanted to die beside his father.

However, he knew that this was impossible.

He couldn't see anything in front of him, but he knew in his heart that his father had been tied down. The cavalry retinue launching a desperate charge against the important volcanic cone slope was the most obvious and cruel proof of this.

If his father hadn't been in dire straits, he would never have risked sending out such a vital mobile force; if it had been an orderly retreat, this cavalry, under the leadership of the Dragon Prince, would surely have played a more crucial role and made a greater contribution, instead of being reduced to moths in a raging fire as they are now.

Did he lead the army to meet his father?
With the key volcanic cone already occupied by Duruci, what's the point of this? Even if they managed to get support, what then?
Can they really break through the encirclement and tear a path to launch an assault on a major volcanic cone?

is it possible?

Reason, like a cold, sharp blade, clearly told him—this is impossible! This is an impossible delusion!

He was ultimately too slow; from returning and organizing to proceeding, he was half a step behind.

One wrong step leads to another, pushing the entire situation into an irreversible abyss.

Moreover, his decision-making itself contained fatal errors. Most importantly, he underestimated the raiding ships. He did not expect that these raiding ships could play such a huge role in land warfare, like a black scythe, ruthlessly reaping hope.

If... if he had known the true capabilities of the raiding ships earlier, even just half an hour earlier, he would never have done this. He would have sent an advance force straight to that crucial volcanic cone, even at the cost of his life, to provide support!

But now, it's all too late. Regret can only churn in my heart like poison, offering no way to make amends.

"Many of us will die today."

The urging call came again from his side. Asniel slowly turned his head and murmured softly. Then, his eyes hardened, and his expression became as if cast in iron, filled with determination and a faint sense of death.

"so what?"

A dragon prince, riding closer on horseback, sneered indifferently, a haughty disdain on his lips, as if death itself were nothing but a joke. "Hahahaha..."

Asniel suddenly burst into laughter, a wild and hoarse laugh, like shattered metal striking the empty wasteland.

The other dragon princes laughed too, their laughter rising and falling, converging together like a desolate yet magnificent battle song, echoing through the fierce winds and volcanic ash, soaring straight into the sky.

At this moment, their laughter was no longer about life and death, but rather a defiant mockery of their tragic fate, directed at their enemies, at their destiny, and even at death itself.

“But some people won’t die. The flame is very important… someone needs to protect it.” The next moment, Asniel’s expression turned serious.

The dragon princes' expressions turned somber. Without a word, they understood the true meaning of the 'fire' Asnir spoke of. It wasn't for themselves, nor for the soldiers around them, but for the Val priests who remained loyal to the Kingdom of Caledor.

The flame is a symbol of hope and the foundation for reconstruction.

If this group of Val priests can safely retreat back to Caledor, the kingdom can then use them as the core to organize the artisans scattered throughout the land. At that time, the forges will burn again, the hammers will strike again, and new weapons and armor will emerge in an endless stream. That is the guarantee for the kingdom's continuation, an ember that must never be extinguished.

Therefore, someone must step forward and take on this heavy but necessary task to escort the Val priest out to a safe place.

Although everyone knew how important this task was, even that it could determine their future, no one was willing to take it on voluntarily. Because, superficially and essentially, this task was almost an escape.

In such a moment of blood and fire, this was seen as cowardice, as a shameful act of breaking oaths.

Proud as they are, they would rather die honorably under the enemy's blade than bear such a "disgraceful" name.

Silence followed silence, until finally, the dragon princes slowly focused their gaze on Asnir.

"No!" As if he had anticipated their thoughts, Asnir shook his head sharply, immediately refusing, his voice resolute. Then, he pointed a finger to the important volcanic cone, "I have a more important task!"

"There's no time!" He sighed, a sigh tinged with both helplessness and resentment. Then, his gaze fell on the dragon prince whom his father had previously assigned. "You will carry out this mission!"

“I…” The Dragon Prince instinctively wanted to refuse; his first reaction was to resist.

However, the moment his gaze met Asnir's, he saw the suppressed pleading and heavy trust deep in the other's eyes.

It was a weighty entrustment.

So he took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, nodded, and his expression gradually became ferocious and distorted, yet also resolute.

"I come!"

"Do you know what to do?" After unloading the heaviest boulder from his shoulders, Asniel slowly exhaled. This arduous task had finally been taken on by someone.

“I know,” the Dragon Prince nodded, his eyes filled with determination. “When we launched the attack on the volcanic cone, I led the troops to cover the Val priest’s breakout.”

Asniel nodded at first, but quickly shook his head.

“Timing is crucial,” he said, his voice as cold and hard as steel. “Send ten hundred-man squads to break out, and while there is still time, send out two hundred-man squads of spearmen, and have the Val priests change into their armor and Val priest attire.”

“Why not…” a dragon prince couldn’t help but question. He wanted to voice his doubts, but the words were cut short by Asnil’s stern gaze, sharp as a blade. At that moment, he had a strange feeling, as if the person standing in front of him was no longer Asnil, but Asnil’s father—Astarion.

The other dragon princes remained silent, but they had already guessed Asnir's true plan—to use a deceptive tactic to draw the attention and firepower of the raiding ships.

Asniel raised his hand and pointed to the sky, thus ending the conversation. Then, he spoke again, his tone more somber than before.

"Assign the Eagle Claw crossbows to the breakout teams." He paused, his eyes burning with intensity. "All of them!"

The dragon princes initially nodded in agreement, acknowledging that the Eagle Claw Ballista would provide as much cover as possible for the breakout team.

However, when Asniel uttered the word "all," their expressions changed, becoming solemn, and a moment of turmoil and hesitation flashed deep in their eyes.

They knew what this "all" meant—it meant that the teams attacking the volcanic cone would completely lose long-range fire support.

That would be tantamount to throwing them directly into a torrent of blades and bowstrings.

Even so, none of them said anything. Because they could sense Asnir's determination, the cold will emanating from his armor and face, and his unwavering purpose.

The most important thing is to send the flame out.

All the plans and arrangements were made in order to ignite the spark.

"Do you know the specific deployment details?"

"I know!" The Dragon Prince nodded emphatically, his voice carrying a suppressed power.

“Then do it, do your best. Tell Imrek everything that happened here.”

The Dragon Prince glanced at Asnir with lingering affection, a look filled with reluctance, respect, and a profound farewell. He then turned to the other Dragon Princes beside him, his eyes burning with final, burning wishes. He patted his warhorse's neck, and the horse neighed, its hooves striking the rocky ground with a resounding clang. Then, with the rider's resolute will, it galloped away.

Asnir did not watch the Dragon Prince depart; his expression remained as cold and resolute as ever, his gaze fixed ahead. Time was running out, and the opportunity to fight was fleeting; he could not afford to waste even a moment.

The moment his warhorse turned around, he had already begun his deployment.

"Deploy twelve 100-man squads to launch an attack!"

"The remaining hundred-man squad is on standby. If we successfully capture the volcanic cone, they will act as the rearguard, guarding the volcanic cone and covering the evacuation of the breakout force and the troops that have captured the volcanic cone."

His voice contained an irresistible force, and his gaze swept over every face, his cold light seemingly burning with flames.

"If... we fail to capture the volcanic cone, then we must break out before Duruch's besieging forces arrive!"

“Your father…” someone tentatively began, their voice filled with undisguised sorrow.

“He’s buying us time.” Asniel’s voice suddenly rose, hard as a volcanic rock. “We can’t let him down!” A moment of pain flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by determination. “If they can break through, we’ll provide support. If…” He paused, then shook his head. The silence that followed seemed to suppress the roar of the entire battlefield.

resolutely.

Cold and aloof.

Unshakeable.

The dragon princes said nothing more, their hearts also filled with heavy emotions.

"I will lead the cavalry in the first wave of attack!" Asniel declared abruptly, his tone carrying an unwavering determination.

"no!"

"I disagree!"

The voices of denial rose and fell, like a torrent pressing down, carrying an almost hoarse intensity.

They knew that Astarion was unlikely to break out. Some of them had been stationed here before, or had been here more than once, and they were familiar with the terrain.

That's why they understand the cruelty of reality even more.

Although the volcanic cones obstructed the view, the garrison at Val's Anvil should have been able to see flags and figures if they had successfully withdrawn; however, there was nothing there.

Nothing.

This indicates that the garrison at Val's Anvil had been besieged and even slaughtered.

Leading cavalry in an uphill attack, while Duruci's ballistae and traps were still in place, was certain death!

That idiot Asanil never returned after setting off with his dragon. Whether he died on the way or was ambushed by the enemy, the ending is clear.

Astarion is either dead or about to die.

The important volcanic cone was guarded by Asnier's cousin, and with the loss of this strategic location...

And Asnier...

They couldn't do it; they didn't want to see this tragedy unfold before their eyes. Even if it happened, they would rather die before it did. (End of Chapter)