Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

As Asur's army began to gradually shift from a column formation to a horizontal formation, the guards of Tar Sarn who were stationed on the important volcanic cones had already been completely wiped out.

The cruel reality was stark before their eyes. The air still resonated with their agonizing cries before death. Bloodstains, still wet, had congealed into dark red patches, mingling with the smell of scorched earth and sulfur. Corpses lay scattered haphazardly across the blackened rocky ground and muddy puddles, creating a horrifying scene.

Duluth and his ilk remained unmoved; without the slightest pause or hesitation, the rhythm continued to unfold under their ruthless order.

Some people were panting softly, sitting down to catch their breath, their hands still tightly gripping the blood-stained blades, as if they could throw themselves back into the fight at any moment; some took off their canteens, gulped down the water, wiped the blood from the corners of their mouths after drinking, and looked indifferent; others grabbed the dry military rations, swallowed them in a few bites, mechanically filling the empty stomachs that they had eaten not long ago.

Other soldiers were even more ruthless. They bent down to examine the enemy corpses one by one, mercilessly finishing off those still twitching, leaving no stone unturned. Several Duruci expressionlessly reached out and grabbed Asur's remains, dragging the body to a pile, while simultaneously gathering their own wounded on higher ground.

The entire scene was stark and efficient, as if it were not the aftermath of a war, but a meticulously choreographed ceremony.

Meanwhile, the senior officers gathered together for a small meeting.

Duruci's operational system differed from Asur's; they did not rely on so-called aristocratic honor and authority, but rather on ironclad regulations and a strict hierarchical structure. The army's command system was rigid, with each position closely linked to rank; position was a symbol of power and also a weight of responsibility.

Currently, both the Eagle Flag Battalion and the regular battalion maintain the same officer structure: a total of five officers, namely the battalion commander, deputy battalion commander, chief of staff, deputy chief of staff, and Kredan.

The battalion commander, as the highest-ranking military commander in the entire battalion, bears the responsibility for the overall operation. His every word and order can determine the life, death, and fate of the soldiers.

The deputy battalion commander is always by the battalion commander's side, assisting him in sharing the heavy burden of command, and may even act on his behalf when necessary.

The chief of staff has a more complex role. He is not only responsible for developing specific operational plans, but also for command and coordination, troop management and data statistics, and ensuring the continuity of combat effectiveness.

The deputy chief of staff mainly handles matters outside of combat operations, including logistics, equipment, material allocation, and even the care of the wounded.

As for Kledan, this position is even more special.

At the earliest meeting outside Adolf, the units were only 100-man units of Kredan. But with the advent of the new era and the expansion of the command system, battalion-level, legion-level, and even large legion-level units of Kredan were added.

Battalion-level Kreidans are no ordinary beings; they are not only fully responsible for the political, ideological, religious, and martial arts work of the entire battalion, but also must manage and supervise all centurion-level Kreidans. Higher-ranking Legion-level and Grand Legion-level Kreidans extend their control over an even wider area through a top-down approach.

They can be described as another invisible blade in Truc's army.

In terms of the order of authority, the battalion commander is undoubtedly the highest-ranking person, followed by Kledan, then the deputy battalion commander and the chief and deputy chief of staff.

At this moment, only the battalion commander, chief of staff, and Kredan were present among the officers of the Eagle Flag Battalion. They had followed regulations and had not traveled on the same raiding ship.

This is an ironclad rule, designed to prevent the tragedy of being wiped out in one fell swoop. Even during wartime, they rarely gather together; face-to-face communication only occurs during these small-scale meetings.

However, Kledan did not attend this time; he continued to perform his duties. He moved among the soldiers like a shadow, whispering encouragement and reinforcing their cold faith. His words were few, but sharp enough to pierce the heart of every soldier.

The deputy battalion commander was currently among the three hundred-man teams that were the first to rush out of the path; while the deputy chief of staff was left at the outpost to coordinate and provide support.

"casualties?!"

Tyrandor asked in a cold voice, his tone devoid of any emotional fluctuation, only sharp questioning, carrying an undeniable sense of pressure.

"Thirty to fifty men were killed in action: twenty-six from the army and nine from the navy. Forty-six were wounded, some seriously, and sixteen of them were completely incapacitated."

The chief of staff, covered in blood, lowered his raised arm, glanced at Tyrandor, and then instinctively turned to Alalos, who stood like a cold, indifferent statue. Finally, his gaze slowly returned to Tyrandor, and he gave a formal and cautious report.

Tyrandor nodded heavily, a gesture as if the entire battlefield weighed heavily on his shoulders. Then, he turned his head and slowly looked at the battalion commander and the chief of staff, his eyes darting back and forth as if assessing their importance.

"Most of the casualties occurred during landing."

The chief of staff, gripping the hilt of his sword, spoke in a low voice, his tone tinged with a hint of helpless coldness.

"The faceplate is the dividing line," the captain sighed.

He had just glanced at the fallen soldiers; many of them had their faceplates and helmets pierced by weapons or arrows.

Tyrandor also sighed, his chest heaving for a moment before he shook his head helplessly.

He knew perfectly well that ordinary soldiers had three weaknesses: their faceplates, ribs, and the back of their thighs and calves.

The back of the thighs and calves are relatively safe, protected by armored skirts and body armor when facing the enemy head-on, unless one is running with their back to the enemy, exposing their weaknesses. Although the armpits are covered by chainmail, the defensive capabilities of chainmail are ultimately limited. Whether it can withstand an attack often depends solely on the soldier's reaction, skill, and the whims of fate.

As for the faceplate... that's the real life-or-death threshold.

The visor is the most intricate yet also the most vulnerable part of the entire suit of armor. It must balance breathing and visibility, so while protecting the face, gaps are inevitable. Even the most expensive helmets cannot completely eliminate this weakness.

In close combat, swords and blades are difficult to pierce precisely into narrow gaps. But bows and arrows are different; once the bowstring snaps, the arrow, swift as lightning, can pierce straight into that line between life and death.

“Invaluable experience…” he murmured, as if speaking to himself, or as if trying to etch this painful experience into everyone’s memory. Then, he rallied his spirits and ordered, “After the battle, conduct a comprehensive and detailed survey of the entire battalion. The data must be extensive and detailed. Record how many soldiers’ helmets and face shields blocked direct fire and how they did so; also record how many did not. This data is very important.”

The battalion commander and the chief of staff nodded simultaneously.

"The attack is about to begin. What are your thoughts?" Tyrandor's voice suddenly turned cold and sharp, as if he could cut through the stagnant air.

The battalion commander and the chief of staff exchanged a brief glance, followed by a slight raising of the battalion commander's eyebrows—a silent hint and a silent division of labor.

The battalion commander knew perfectly well that this was both an opportunity and a test. According to procedure, the chief of staff was supposed to propose an operational plan, and he, as the battalion commander, would make adjustments and decisions. But now, Tyrandor, this high-ranking Dreadlord, had suddenly appeared and directly assumed his authority.

Therefore, this was not a good opportunity, but rather a trap. In order to cope with this test, and more importantly, to solidify the relationship in the future, he had to take the initiative to give up this step and hand over the right to speak to the chief of staff.

"The navy can assemble a 100-man combat group. My idea is to use the navy as a reserve force, deployed on the high ground of the slope, ready to provide support at any time. Of the three 100-man squads in the battalion, one is deployed on the slope, one guards the passage, and the other is positioned between the two squads to provide support from both sides."

After receiving a signal from the battalion commander, the chief of staff took a deep breath and stated the battle plan without hesitation.

After listening, Tyrandor turned his head slightly, staring intently at the captain, as if trying to discern his true attitude from his face. Only after the captain nodded slightly, his eyes revealing approval, did he speak.

"Based on what?"

The captain's heart tightened; he knew that his test had finally arrived.

"Spellcasters, raiding ships, ballistae, our elite troops and organization, courage and discipline!" The battalion commander stood tall, his voice firm, almost an oath. After a moment's pause, he emphasized, "And of course, the reinforcements that are coming!"

Tyrandor smiled with satisfaction, then turned to look at Alallos, his eyes filled with a mixture of smugness and inquiry.

Knowing what Tyrandeur was implying, Alalos rolled his eyes in annoyance, his gesture revealing his helplessness and impatience. He didn't respond, but simply raised his chin, turned his head away, ignoring the ongoing discussions at the meeting, and focused all his attention on the raiding ship that was being adjusted.

At this moment, the raiding ship did not reload the passengers, but simply landed on the ground.

When fighting in the air, raiding ships have the positioning and flexibility of helicopters, and can quickly attack, dive, and turn, like a sharp blade cutting through the sky.

But a raiding ship is not a helicopter; it is far more versatile than that.

In addition to their aerial combat capabilities, raiding ships can also engage in land-based warfare.

The method is... to lay it horizontally, land it, and completely change its purpose, transforming it into a vehicle fort, bunker, and barrier.

And that's exactly what Alaros is seeing now.

After the raiding ship landed sideways, its sturdy hull became a natural barrier, and the gun crews on deck immediately sprang into action. With skillful and swift teamwork, they dismantled the ballistae and then firmly secured their mounts into the deck recesses behind the hull facing the enemy. The series of clicking metallic sounds and heavy locking clicks seemed to be a cold prelude to the impending carnage.

Once the base was in place, the gun crew reassembled the ballista, each movement exuding a skilled yet calm and ruthless energy.

Meanwhile, the army soldiers were also working diligently. Some of them took out the short shovels they carried and quickly shoveled soil to compact the mud around the bottom of the raiding ship; others carried stones and even dragged the fallen body of Asur to fill the gaps to prevent the ship from swaying during the battle, which would be fatal and could potentially create a breach in the enemy's forward lines.

Flesh and blood mixed with stones and soil strangely transformed into the filler of the barrier.

Once everything was in place, the army artillerymen quickly boarded the deck, fixed the ballista base to the deck recess, installed the ballista, and then checked the ballista's pivot, string, and the tightness of the recess.

Soon, the two ballistae on the deck of the raider were deployed, one at the front and one at the rear of the deck.

Meanwhile, the spellcasters who did not need to operate the raiding ships carried a strange box and, under Lyra's command, quickly dispersed, either running towards other raiding ships or climbing up the slope to higher ground.

Once the raiding ships, no longer serving as wagon rampages, took off again, the atmosphere on the battlefield suddenly became tense. By this time, the meeting had ended, and the squadron leader and chief of staff quickly left.

"How was it?" Tyrandor seemed like a completely different person at this moment, his face full of smugness and his tone frivolous.

"Not bad..." Alalos looked away, rolled his eyes again in annoyance, his voice full of speechlessness and reluctance.

Tyrande smiled with satisfaction, nodded, and slowly turned his head. His gaze instantly turned cold, locking onto the most conspicuous spot on the slope.

There, the battalion-level eagle flag fluttered high, its fluttering sound echoing through the air. The flag seemed not to be made of cloth, but rather woven from pride and defiance, proudly pointing straight to the sky, as if silently challenging the entire world.

As the battalion commander's deployment unfolded, one hundred-man squad flag after another was raised. They fluttered in the wind, black and silver intertwined, as if responding to the enemy's arrival with a silent roar.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving, and turned his gaze back forward.

Asur's army was fully deployed, their formation orderly and chilling, like an iron wall pressing down on the heavens and earth. The thick shield wall reflected a blinding glint in the light, and the spears, densely packed, resembled a surging ocean of steel, closing in inch by inch. That sinister aura, even hundreds of paces away, could still send a chill down one's spine.

"It seems... they've made up their minds." He murmured with a hint of admiration and coldness in his voice. At that moment, he saw some kind of invisible will.

Then, he slowly raised his hand, his gaze falling on the crack in his armor, where blood was still seeping from the wound torn open by a sharp blade. Although he had arrived a little late, he had participated in the battle, and the price was blood slowly seeping from the tear, sliding down his armor.

"Uncle Tyrandor, are you hurt?"

Upon hearing the familiar voice and hurried footsteps, Tyrandor looked up, his gaze falling on the newcomer. His face softened instantly, revealing a rare look of doting affection.

Lyrath planted the Far Sea Staff into the ground, then stretched out her fair right hand and firmly grasped Tyrandor's arm, her eyes filled with concern and urgency.

Alalos stared intently at the spellcaster, his gaze sliding from the robes concealing her figure and armor to her waist, where a magical sword shimmering with runic light hung; he also noticed the strangely shaped box she carried in her left hand, its surface inscribed with symbols that were indistinguishable as seals or forbidden spells. Only when the spellcaster looked up at him did he realize he had been staring for far too long. "Alalos? Stop staring, come help," Lylas said, her voice brooking no argument.

Alallos immediately sprang into action, carefully removing Tyrandor's arm guards. When the guards were completely removed, what came into view were muscles as solid as iron and bandages soaked in blood; the bandages had long since lost their effectiveness, the blood seeping through layer upon layer. As he held his breath and removed the layers of bandages, a metallic, rusty smell immediately filled the air.

Lyrath raised her right hand, her slender fingertips flicking gently. A surge of green energy, almost visible to the naked eye, erupted forth, converging into a stream of light from the starstone at the tip of her staff. The light, like a surging spring tide, enveloped Tyrandor's wounds, and his flesh healed rapidly in the radiance, as if time itself had been reversed.

After tending to her wounds, she nodded silently, picked up her staff again, her expression cold and focused. She left without a word, only giving a slight nod before hurriedly turning and leaving, the hem of her robe brushing the ground, stirring a gentle breeze.

And so, Lylas and Alalos completed their third meeting.

"Hey?!" Tyrandor looked at Alalos, who was holding his arm armor and looking at Lyrath's back, with annoyance. He curled his lip and called out in a low voice with a look of disgust.

"Who is she?" Alaros turned his head, a shy and somewhat bewildered smile on his face, as if someone had discovered his thoughts.

Tyrandor didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached out and swiftly pulled the arm armor back from Alalos's hand. He bent down and began to put it on again, only speaking slowly when Alalos leaned forward to help him secure the buckles.

"Raine's daughter."

"She called you uncle?" Alalos was taken aback.

“Otherwise?” Tyrande retorted irritably, his tone carrying the certainty and self-assurance of an elder. As someone with experience, he naturally understood Alaros's strange reaction at that moment, so he simply said, “My nephew!”

Alalos showed no displeasure; instead, he nodded as if he had suddenly realized something.

Indeed, this was the case. As a member of the new generation, he was a generation younger than Tyrande in terms of age, seniority, and experience. Before he was even born, Tyrande was already the Woodland Lord of Agvilon, and since Tyrande and Darkus were of the same generation, he was naturally a generation younger than Darkus and his ilk.

“She…” Alalos wanted to say something more.

“You two must have met in Lorthorn, right? At the banquet in the Emerald Court? You didn’t see her, but she definitely saw you, at the Temple of Asuyan!” Tyrandor interrupted him, his voice tinged with impatience. “Besides, this isn’t the time to talk about these things, is it, my nephew?”

“I’ll protect you in a moment, my uncle!” Alalos retorted irritably.

As soon as he finished speaking, he realized something was wrong. It seemed that he had been outmaneuvered by Tyrande again and had lost the verbal battle for nothing.

What did Kerrylian, who was his contemporary, say?
But Tyrandeur had already turned and left, his back still straight and resolute, just as he had said, now was not the time to argue about such trivial matters.

On the other side, the battle was drawing to a close.

The air was thick with the stench of blood and the smell of burning flesh. Broken spears, trampled flags, and tattered armor littered the muddy ground.

Those Asur who had miraculously escaped the onslaught on the outskirts, at the officers' shouts, either by instinct or by the will to survive, forcibly pieced together their scattered ranks into small formations. But this was merely a desperate struggle for survival; their formations lacked coordination, their steps were chaotic, and the brilliance in their eyes was no longer that of confidence, but rather the fear of death.

When these fragile defenses were exposed to the attacks of the Demon Crab, the nightmarish scene returned. The crossbows on the Demon Crab's shell roared, arrows piercing the shield walls, penetrating bodies, and even pinning two people together. The brief resistance was instantly shattered, the ranks crumbled like glass, and in the moment of collapse, the conscripted Asur finally could not withstand the onslaught.

They began to flee. Some dropped their shields, some stumbled and fell in the blood, struggling to get up, only to be knocked over by their comrades behind them and trampled to death. Some shouted their mothers' names, their voices tearing their throats, but they were quickly swallowed by the mud and blood.

This is tragic, and it was destined. If they hold their ground, they will only be torn apart; if they turn and run, they will eventually be caught.

The demonic crab slithered across the muddy ground, sometimes charging like thunder, sometimes leaping up suddenly, the enormous creature slamming into the terrified soldiers with a heavy, wet wave of air. The Asur were trapped in the mud like caged beasts; their armor made walking difficult, the mud dragging their legs, and the demonic crab's iron-clad pincers became their death sentence.

Some people had just turned around when they were snapped in half at the waist by the giant pincers, blood and entrails splattering everywhere; others raised their weapons to defend themselves, but were bitten to pieces by the crab pincers, then crushed into a bloody mist along with their arms, and then sent flying; still others were slammed directly onto the muddy ground, their bodies twisted like rag dolls, not even having time to scream.

Screams, cries, and curses rose and fell, but no one could stop the massacre.

Blood and rainwater mingled in the mud, forming crimson streams, and the fallen corpses quickly piled up into small mounds. Asur's proud army, the once glorious and indomitable ranks, were now nothing but defeated silhouettes and desperate cries.

The defeat of the Asur garrison was comprehensive.

The central formation had already been torn to shreds by the sharp-toothed eels and long-tailed sharks, and the elves could no longer maintain their orderly battle lines. Some chose to flee in panic, while others stood alone and helpless, making their last stand amidst the mud and blood.

A dragon prince, still holding his lance high, charged head-on at a long-tailed war shark. From the shark's back, Duruci fired a harpoon; the sharp spear flew straight at him, and he instinctively parried with his shield.

He blocked the attack, but the price was that his shield and left arm were pierced by the harpoon, flesh and metal torn together, and crimson blood gushed down his arm guard. But he did not retreat; instead, with a painful roar, he continued to urge his warhorse forward, charging towards the enemy like a burning meteor.

The mud made it difficult for the warhorses to run, and the charge was more like a slow struggle.

However, fate seemed to show a cruel mercy at that moment: the long-tailed war shark's fangs, which had always been invincible, failed to bite through the magically enhanced spear.

The spearhead, like a testing rod, pierced the giant shark's throat, giving it a taste of its own medicine. The behemoth thrashed wildly, whipping its tail fin.

But the victory was hard-won.

The spear pierced too deeply; the giant shark's final twitches before death were as heavy as thunder. Its massive body crashed down, crushing the dragon prince and his warhorse into the mud. The horse's mournful cries and the sounds of bones breaking were drowned out by the mud and blood, but the dragon prince still did not give up. One of his hands was pierced by a harpoon, and his other hand was unarmed, so he used his fists, his teeth, and every part of his body he could move to fight back against Duruchi, who was climbing off the shark's back.

"Come on, you bastard!"

He roared, his mouth filled with blood and curses.

But that didn't stop three Duruci from crawling over and pinning him down. A short blade flashed, and a sharp dagger pierced his eye socket. With a twist, his struggle abruptly froze, and only blood gushed from his eye socket like tears, flowing down his cheeks.

However, the victory of the three Duruci lasted only a few breaths. Before they could do anything more, they were surrounded by the remaining Asur soldiers.

Those Asur who had been tortured and had no way to use their strength finally seized a chance for revenge. Roars and curses mingled with the tearing of swords as they charged forward, their eyes red with rage and fearless.

A moment later, the battlefield seemed to fall silent for a brief instant.

The fallen corpses piled together: the long-tailed war shark, the dragon prince and his warhorse crushed beneath it, and the three fallen Duruchs. The blood churning in the mud mingled the deaths of these four creatures, blurring the lines between them.

Not far away, the battle of Astarion was one of the last glimmers of light on the entire battlefield.

He charged forward on horseback, his spear carrying the fury and despair of his comrades. However, his opponent was no ordinary foe, but a champion-level Soulbreaker riding a deep-sea steed.

Unlike regular Soul Splitters, Champion-level Soul Splitters do not have Soul Lamps on their helmets; instead, they are adorned with ornate horizontal crowns.

Against the backdrop of the scene, the horizontal crown appears particularly ferocious, as if proclaiming a cold honor from the abyss.

When the Deepsea Steed's three long tails touched the ground, mud splashed everywhere, and the screams of the fleeing Asur soldiers and the sounds of clashing weapons seemed to be cut off, leaving only the life-or-death duel between the two warriors.

Astarion roared, thrusting his spear straight at the Soulbreaker's chest, but his blade swept across in an instant, shattering the spear shaft. With a resounding crack of breaking ironwood, he struggled to pull his sword back, attempting to use the momentum to charge at his opponent.

But the Deepsea Steed was far more ferocious than his warhorse. It roared and lunged forward, its sharp claws tearing through the armor and sinking deep into the horse's shoulders and neck, ripping flesh and bone apart. The warhorse neighed and rolled, its hooves clattering with the cracking of breaking bones, before crashing heavily into the mud.

The instant his warhorse fell, he pulled his foot out of the stirrup, rolled on the ground, and then charged at the enemy, his eyes bloodshot with pain and rage, while the Soulbreaker leaped off the back of the Deepsea Steed.

Thus, he clashed with the Soul Splitter several times, their swords flashing and blades clashing, sparks flying like raindrops. But each of the Soul Splitter's blows was as heavy as a mountain, as if forcing him to admit the inevitability of defeat.

Finally, with a violent roar, the Soul Splitter's blade slashed down.

Astarion's sword was knocked away, and his body crashed heavily into the mud. He tried to get up, but the cold blade of the battle sword was already pressed against his chin.

The last thing he saw was the Deepsea Steed tearing at the remains of his warhorse, teeth and flesh intertwined in a scene of purgatory. The next instant, the Soulbreaker's blade fell sharply, ending his struggle.

Astarion's death was like the last torch on the battlefield being extinguished, symbolizing the complete collapse of the last pillar of the Asur garrison.

Meanwhile, the Disaster Walker chariots arrived in position, their wings unfurling like sharp blades, but they did not rush into the battlefield. Their iron hooves crushed the scorched earth, their wheels splashing mud and blood, as they coldly watched the fleeing rout, as if they were livestock destined for slaughter.

They had no desire to pursue anything, nor any intention to waste time; they sailed straight toward more distant, strategic locations.

The three hundred-man squads led by the deputy battalion commander also had no intention of entering the battlefield. Their steps were steady and swift, and they were not swayed by the remnants of the defeated army not far away.

There is no valuable prey here; all that remains are scraps barely clinging to life.

The real prey, the real opportunity to win, lies in the distance.

Thus, the three hundred-man teams, like three sharp arrows, bypassed the battlefield and plunged directly into the larger, impending tide from the periphery.

At the same time, the commander of the battle group, the centurion of the Erwei, issued an order for the Erwei, who were about to enter combat mode, to disengage. He knew that the routed soldiers on this battlefield were like turtles in a barrel, easily crushed at any moment.

The real objective, the real key, lies in the distance. That is where the battle truly begins.

So the Evil Guards withdrew their sharpness, lined up, and marched forward like a wave, advancing into the distance.

Meanwhile, on the important volcanic cone, the Asur forces, having already formed a battle formation, launched an offensive, charging up the slope. Spears stood tall, shields formed a wall, and the blue-silver battle formation surged towards the enemy lines like a powerful tidal wave.

Tyrandor, who had chosen to guard the slope, stood tall and imposing, like a burning torch. He raised his greatsword high, its blade reflecting a crimson light, like a raging flame illuminating the eyes of every Duruchi around him. He roared to the sky, his voice sweeping across the land like a storm.

"We have drawn back the curtain on the Underworld! Now, let these Asur see who the true warriors are! Kill! Until the earth is soaked with their blood!"

"kill!"

"kill!"

"kill!"

The roar was like a spark, igniting the Duruci. They raised their arms and shouted together, their weapons striking the shields. The crisp sound of sparks flying was like a thousand drums beating, merging into a deafening roar.

It was a frenzied scream, a violent vow, and an uncontrollable killing intent. The air trembled in this frenzy, as if the heavens and earth themselves were shaking.

In this frenzy, Asur's charge finally erupted with a thunderous roar. The earth trembled beneath the charging warhorses and armored figures, and on the slope, two torrents of destiny collided head-on. (End of Chapter)