Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The fifth day since Imrek sang the Dragon Song.

Location: Val Anvil.

From the moment of landing at dawn to the end of the battle, the entire process lasted only three hours, yet it felt like an eternity. It was a sense of time frozen in blood and fire, with only slaughter and carnage remaining between heaven and earth.

With the passage firmly blocked by Duruci, the five thousand Asur defenders of Val's Anvil ultimately failed to escape. They were trapped and died in this desolate place where steel and fire intertwined, not one of them able to break through the encirclement and slaughter; it was a brutality that was almost suffocating. All that remained on the battlefield were the chilling sounds of pursuit and the final slaughter.

Small-scale fighting continues.

Scattered sounds of collisions, the scraping of swords, and shouts echoed through the corridors inside the mountain, like some kind of eerie echo.

Those Asur warriors familiar with the area chose to flee into nearby caves or hide in deeper underground passages. Using side passages and concealed rock walls, they maneuvered against the relentless Duruchi, launching surprise attacks from time to time before quickly retreating into the shadows.

Many more panicked people stumbled into dead-end caves, trapped in narrow spaces, and could only raise their swords with their last ounce of courage, waiting for Duruci to swarm in and launch a desperate resistance.

Occasionally, black smoke would slowly rise into the air, the traces of Duruqi's fire attack, forcing the hiding Asur out.

As for those Asur who still wanted to return to the Val's Anvil for a final stand, their plans had already been thwarted before they could even take shape. Raid ships, along with the ensuing tanks and infantry, had already established a chilling blockade. The steel wall blocked their retreat; no matter how they charged, they could only crash into the cold spears and black shields, their blood and flesh crushed under the immense pressure.

Asur's last hope was utterly shattered at this moment.

As the battle raged on, and as time relentlessly ticked by, the clock finally struck noon. The stench of blood permeated the earth and rock walls; the world seemed to freeze, and only the cruel reality unfolded before their eyes.

"You orchestrated this?"

A low, questioning voice broke the brief silence, carrying a hint of doubt and a sense of suppression, but not arrogance.

"No! I was just an observer because I had to participate in the battle." Alaros's response was undisguised. His expression was indifferent, and his brows revealed a coldness that was out of place with his surroundings, but the firmness and decisiveness in his words could not be ignored.

Your accent is so strange.

“Because I speak Finnish Elsalin.” Alallos remained expressionless, his tone flat.

"Fin-El Sallin language?"

“Yes, it’s complicated to explain, and I don’t want to. What’s the point to you? Knowledge dissemination?” Alalos shrugged slightly, his shoulder armor making a soft, hard clang. A hint of impatience flashed in his eyes, not rude, but cold sarcasm. He paused, his tone turning somber, “Simply put, you can understand it as Fin-Elsalin evolving from Elsalin.”

The moment he finished speaking, his gaze sharpened, becoming piercing as he stared directly at Asnir. His expression instantly shifted from indifferent to grave, and his tone carried a chilling undercurrent, like frost washing over you.

"I suggest you don't say that word! The last guy who said that to me died a horrible death!"

"Asanir?" Asnir, who was sitting on the ground, slowly crossed his legs, his movements showing some fatigue, yet still maintaining a certain elegance. He rested one hand on his forehead, raised his head to look directly at Alalos, his expression complex, as if he had deduced the answer from the other's words.

“I don’t know him,” Alalos said coldly.

“You should have seen the dragon rider before; he wears a set of golden armor,” Asnir said softly, his tone both tentative and tinged with an unspoken sigh.

"What's your relationship with him?" Alalos looked enlightened, then his gaze turned serious, and he stared at Asniel's face with a hint of probing, trying to discern some hidden secret from his slightly pale complexion.

“My name is Asnir, and he was my cousin.” Asnir’s voice was low, with a slight, suppressed tremor. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s dead. I saw him die with my own eyes.” As Alaros uttered these words, his body tensed slightly as he secretly adjusted his breathing, preparing to deal with any sudden attack from his opponent.

However, the other party's reaction was unexpected.

"Good riddance!" Asnir's voice suddenly rose, almost a roar. His expression twisted in an instant, his mouth contorting in a grotesque twitch. The jealousy that had long been hidden in his heart was now unleashed in this rotten situation, transforming into venomous curses and chilling incursions. His eyes were bloodshot, as if tearing apart some long-suppressed knot in his heart.

After he vented his anger, the sudden outburst quickly subsided, leaving only emptiness and exhaustion. He seemed completely hollowed out, his eyes unfocused, and he asked in a dejected, low voice.

"If he hadn't died, the battle would still be going on, right?"

After he finished speaking, he lowered his head, his shoulders trembled slightly, and he let out a faint sigh.

“Should? In my opinion… he shouldn’t have launched that dive.” Alalos pondered for a moment, his brow furrowed, his voice slow and restrained. “His arrogance, his recklessness… ruined him.” At the end, he shook his head, sighed deeply, his tone filled with irreparable regret.

"You killed him, didn't you?" Asniel's voice rang out again, hoarser than before, as if interrogating him, or as if confirming his own guilt.

"No!" Alalos immediately denied, his tone decisive. "I only wounded him; the one who killed him was someone else."

"Who?" Asniel raised his head, his eyes empty yet stubborn, as if grasping at the last shred of obsession.

"Does it matter?" Alalos retorted, his gaze as calm as cold iron.

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter!” Asnil murmured, as if talking to himself. He let out a long breath, his eyes dimming, then looked up at Alalos. “You’re not Duruci. In my memory, Duruci wasn’t like you… Your accent, your vocabulary, and your clothes and weapons…” His tone was somewhat detached, as if he were piecing together fragments he had overheard from his cousin in the middle of the night. “Are you Asley? Or Enil?”

“Asley!” Alalos raised his chin, his tone tinged with pride.

Asniel nodded dejectedly, saying nothing more. Silence, like a giant net, completely engulfed him. Now, saying anything was pointless; he knew he was captured.

At the height of the battle, he chose to join the fighting on the slope. His thinking was exceptionally clear then—Druucci's formation on the slope was insufficient to withstand a simultaneous attack from both the front and flanks. If they could completely destroy his formation, Duruucci would inevitably fall into chaos. Taking advantage of the momentum of his troops charging up the slope, he could then directly attack the junction of the slope and the passage, using his numerical superiority to completely destroy Duruucci's defensive line there, thus opening the passage and achieving a breakout.

He remembered wielding his sword and killing several Duruci soldiers until that moment!
He encountered a strange fellow with a flickering yellow lamp hanging above his forehead and a strange and eerie weapon in his hand.

The battle was extremely difficult, and he narrowly escaped death several times.

He gritted his teeth and fought desperately, facing death in an instant, but in the end, at the cost of his shield being completely shattered, he killed that monstrous opponent.

Then he encountered the opponent before him. At that moment, Duruci's reinforcements were arriving on the battlefield in an endless stream, their iron hooves crushing the mud and their horns echoing. But this did not prevent him from engaging in an unavoidable championship showdown with his opponent.

Finally, he was struck on the forehead by the opponent's heavy, tail-hammer-like tail-grip strike, his helmet dented, his vision went black, and he completely lost consciousness.

When he awoke again, the battle was over, and the lingering sounds of fighting had faded into silence.

He discovered that his armor had been roughly removed, the armor that once symbolized honor and status now lying scattered to the side, cold as discarded scrap metal. And the short blade that had allowed him to maintain his dignity in dire straits had also been taken.

Surrounded by a squad of blood-soaked, heavily breathing Duruqi soldiers, their faces were filled with ill intent. Their eager eyes, like those of a pack of hungry predators, stared at him, crushing even the last vestige of his desire to end his life—they wouldn't let him die so easily.

He stared dejectedly and blankly into the distance.

There, Duruci's army was methodically cleaning up the battlefield, like indifferent craftsmen harvesting corpses and spoils, their movements mechanical yet efficient. This scene filled him with a suffocating sense of oppression, and he even wondered if he was in a dream world woven from death.

However, this daze and numbness only lasted for a short time.

Footsteps approached, steady and composed, as if they didn't belong to this blood-soaked land.

It is Tyrandor Twilight Star, a renowned figure in the society of Duruci.

He walked up to Alaros, his gaze as sharp as a blade, yet exuding an undeniable air of authority.

“Asnir, brother of the dragon rider.” Alalos nodded at Asnir, as if to remind Tyrandor that the person before him was no ordinary man.

"What is your relationship with Astarion?" Tyrandor didn't waste any pleasantries; his question was brief and direct, like a sharp arrow hitting the nail on the head.

"He is my father."

Asnier answered calmly, his voice neither trembling nor urgent for confirmation. He didn't ask about his father's life or death, because before launching the attack, a suffocating intuition had crept into his mind—a feeling that almost suffocated him, making him certain that, without a miracle, his father… was most likely already dead. Besides, even if he asked, the answer would only be a terrible and cruel confirmation, utterly meaningless.

He suddenly looked up, his gaze falling on Tyrandor's intricately patterned armor.

"Are you the Lord of Fear?"

"Yes, a high-ranking fear lord!"

"You orchestrated this?" Asniel once again posed the question that had been troubling him. Ultimately, he was unconvinced; in his understanding, this was not how war was fought.

"Are you talking about strategy or tactics?" Tyrandor's eyes flickered slightly as he asked back.

“Yes, I have them all!” Asnier answered through gritted teeth, his chest heaving violently.

"The strategy was devised by Tarrendan," Tyrandor said slowly, his tone as if recounting an ancient truth. "The eagle soars, the great eagle spreads its wings, leading to victory. You can think of it as a military organization responsible for coordinating the construction and supreme command of the entire armed forces. As for tactics... those arise spontaneously, decided in real time by officers and spellcasters at the front based on the actual situation on the battlefield."

"Then what is the meaning of your existence?"

Asnir stared at Tyrandor, his voice low and filled with barely suppressed resentment. At this moment, he felt a sense of humiliation, as if he had been mocked.

“Me?” Tyrandor raised an eyebrow and asked rhetorically, then slowly spread his hands, as if displaying the absurdity of his existence on this blood-soaked land. “Yes, what is the meaning of my existence? That’s a very good philosophical question, and also a military one. I simply adjusted the troop deployment according to the situation. Of course, I was also involved in your brother’s death.”

"Your accent... is also quite strange."

“Your focus is strange.” Tyrande chuckled. “What exactly do you care about? Me? Asley? Or Duruci? The future?” He paused, his voice gradually lowering. “The present will always become the past. The future… who knows?”

Having said all that, he said no more, only giving Alalos a meaningful look before turning around and walking uphill across the blood-splattered slope. He was going to see his niece.

Just then, Asniel's eyes widened suddenly, his breath seemed to stop for a moment, and his chest heaved violently with his sudden heartbeat. He thought of a question—why did that high-ranking fear lord with the strange accent know about his father?

Just as he was about to speak, about to voice his question, his mouth slowly closed again, his lips clenched tightly, his teeth even making a slight grinding sound from the force. He considered a possibility, a chilling, blood-curdling possibility—there was a spy!

The battlefield was still being cleared, the stench of blood lingering in the wind like a heavy curtain hanging over the sky. Corpses, shattered shields, and broken spears littered the earth, as if the earth itself were wailing. Asnir and Alaros continued their conversation, but their voices sounded particularly abrupt, like echoes in a deathly silent graveyard.

Finally, when Asniel learned of everything that had happened at the Temple of Asuyan, he was utterly shocked.

In that instant, his pupils contracted sharply, and the light in his eyes vanished like a candle flame extinguished by a fierce wind. What followed was a vast, overwhelming sense of bewilderment, surging in like a relentless tidal wave, engulfing him entirely. He even felt as if he no longer belonged to this battlefield, no longer belonged to this moment in time and space, but was floating in an invisible void.

He staggered, finally collapsing to the ground. The earth supported his back, and he stared blankly at the sky, his eyes gradually filling with tears. The blurred light reflected trembling colors, and tears slid down his face, silently dripping onto the land he had sworn to defend with his life.

“What is the meaning…” he murmured, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible, as if questioning the air or pronouncing a judgment on himself, “Punishment? A curse?”

Coming from a long-established aristocratic family, he was steeped in family learning and once thought he carried a burden of honor and mission.

However, at this moment, he thought of the past he had read about in the book, of the meeting in Avalon, of the second Eternal Queen, of Bel-Shana, of the secrets and rifts passed down through generations, of... The more he thought about it, the more oppressed he felt in his chest, as if a massive boulder was pressing down on his soul.

Of course, no matter what he thinks or how he struggles, it doesn't stop time from relentlessly flowing on, nor does it stop reality from advancing cruelly.

On the distant sea, albatross-class merchant ships slowly appeared, symbols of victory, and supplies would be transported to the land in batches.

It's noon, time to eat!

At this point, the battle of the Val's Anvil is considered over, and the settlement phase begins.

According to the professional path, the Vaal faith system of Asur is divided into three levels: Blacksmith Priest, Craftsman Priest, and Great Forge Priest.

The role of a blacksmith priest is considered entry-level. Although called a priest, they actually play more of a role as a priest, apprentice, and servant. They are both assistants and attendants to their mentors in their daily lives, serving as both helpers in the workshop and trainees by the hearth. This role is somewhat similar to that of a graduate student, who not only bears the burden of academic studies but also the responsibility of service and dedication.

At this stage, their vision is normal, and they can still see the world clearly, but they have not yet acquired the talent of "willpower over body." Only when they truly ascend to become blacksmith priests will they undergo the pain of blindness in the ritual, having their sight taken away in exchange for the fire of will bestowed by Vaal.

The blacksmith priests naturally played the role of mentors, serving as the backbone of the Vaal faith and bridging the gap between the older and younger generations. With the assistance of the blacksmith priests, they were responsible for processing the most precious Yseramar silver, which they forged into weapons, armor, and chariots, becoming the foundation upon which the Asul legion stood.

The High Forge Priest is an even higher being, not only a sect leader but also the one who operates the sacred Vaal Anvil.

Currently, the High Forge Priest is Miel. But when Duruchi arrived, or more precisely, when Des stepped onto this land, he, like Kotek during the Great Severance, brazenly betrayed Asur and the oath.

He led his followers into a cave and chose to escape.

He was accompanied by nearly eight hundred blacksmith priests and forge priests, who all hid together. After the battle, they emerged from the cave.

Nearly two hundred blacksmith priests and forge priests also chose to fight for Caledor.

These people were fighting...

When reinforcements arrived, the Duruci garrison, located at the junction of the slope and the passage, launched an attack led by their captain. His objective was clear and ruthless: to capture all the Val priests in Asur's army during the pursuit.

To this end, the battalion commander slowed down the march, constantly turning around to give instructions and strictly ordering his soldiers not to kill the followers of the Val. For him, this was not only to add a glorious chapter to his record, but also to avoid angering the Val avatar, letting the cooked duck fly away, and losing the military merit he had already obtained.

result……

Asur taught him a lesson.

The spearmen dressed in Val priest attire were saved, but the Val priests in spearman armor fared much worse.

Trampling, suicide, fighting to the death, and pursuit—in the end, of the nearly two hundred Val priests, only fifty remained standing, their eyes filled with tears of blood and burning hatred.

Of course, these losses do not prevent Duruci from achieving some initial successes.

Whether they chose to hide in the caves or made a desperate attempt to break out, none of the Val priests escaped in the end. Asnir's "Fire Seed Project," which he had placed so much hope in, completely failed, like a bucket of cold water extinguishing the last embers.

If weapons and provisions are the two legs that carry an army, then after this battle, Asur has broken one; and the other leg is teetering on the brink of collapse, and may become lame at any moment.

While the battle at Val's Anvil came to an end, fighting continued far away in the forests of Avalon.

On the sixth day after Imrek sang the Dragon Song, the heavens and earth seemed to slow down their drumbeats.

On the surface, nothing earth-shattering happened, but undercurrents were swirling. The battle in the Avalon Forest gradually came to an end, entering a brutal cleanup phase. The Sword Saint of Hoss and the Avalon Sisters attacked together, cutting through the remaining enemies like sharp blades, eliminating the scattered cultists inch by inch.

Meanwhile, the Duruch forces in the direction of Val's Anvil withdrew in an orderly manner after completing their mission; at the same time, in the direction of Lorthen, the other two legions of the Fifth Army and the Fifteenth Army, which were to be deployed to the northern peninsula of the Kingdom of Elion, had all boarded their ships.

Meanwhile, in the lagoon of Lorthen, an Asur fleet not tasked with transporting troops from the Kingdom of Iris slowly set sail towards the Southern Ocean. Apart from Rein on the dragon ship, and Delamaril and Imralion who commanded the fleet, no one else knew where the fleet was headed.

On the seventh day after Imrek sang the Dragon Song, a new battle suddenly broke out on the northern peninsula of the Kingdom of Elion.

However, this battle lasted only a brief moment.

When Truch's fleet, having broken away from the naval formation, rounded the peninsula and arrived at Tal Palatour, a large corps under the Fourth Army had already advanced rapidly by land, encircling the city by both sea and land, clamping it tightly like an iron clamp.

Asur, inside the city, originally intended to defend it to the death, relying on its strong city walls.

But everything changed in the blink of an eye amidst the twists and roars of cannons.

A deafening roar shook the heavens; the city walls crumbled, stones flew everywhere, as if someone had forcefully knocked out a tooth. High above, swarms of raiding ships circled down, their dark silhouettes pressing in like a curtain. Surrender notices, like snowflakes, drifted in the sunlight, carrying a glaring irony. In the distance, Duru's massive army slowly began to move, like mountains shifting.

This series of events was like a wake-up call for Asur in the city.

My previously tense will was completely shattered.

Fear spread, morale collapsed, and they finally chose to lay down their weapons and surrender the entire city.

On the eighth day after Imrek sang the Dragon Song, another battle broke out in the western part of the Dragonspine Mountains within the Kingdom of Caledor.

The main player on Truc's side is still the 15th Army.

Originally, Tyrandeur planned to ride his giant eagle back to Lor'theon alone, enter the Inner Sea, and pursue the other two large legions that were about to be deployed to the northern peninsula of the Kingdom of Elion. These legions, having completed their campaign objectives, would then rest and expand, awaiting orders for the next phase of the war.

As for staying on the volcanic island... that's not part of the campaign objectives at all.

If you save people but lose land, you can save both people and land; if you save land but lose people, you can lose both people and land.

This moment was fully interpreted.

The main anvil of the Vaal Anvil cannot be taken away; it belongs to the divine creation. Moreover, even if it could be taken away, it would be meaningless—because in the future, when Duruci reigns over Ulthuan, the main anvil will still be put into use, and it will have to be moved back then.

Therefore, the Duruci did not intend to touch the main anvil, but they had already planned for the fate of the Val's followers. As long as all the Val priests were taken away, and all the tools, supplies, and minerals around the main anvil were removed, this ancient armory would be completely rendered useless.

Asur can neither take the main anvil away, nor use the main anvil, nor continue production around it.

The other anvils and furnaces, unlike the main anvil, belong to the individual blacksmith priests and are extremely valuable assets. They can be used to forge weapons and also serve as mediums for casting spells.

Unfortunately, the magic possessed by Vale priests is usually only of a supporting nature.

They are artisans, not battle mages.

All they can do is use the "Artist's Touch" to transform a rough handmade item into something beautiful; the "Val Patience" to condense a long time into a moment; the "Val Grace" to give weapons and armor a light and elegant feel; the "Rock Divination" to sense rare minerals through orthodoxy; and the "Flawless Fire" to ignite the symbol of Val perfectionism.

These spells, though exquisite, were powerless to change the outcome of a fierce battle.

True offensive magic is extremely rare, completely incomparable to the runes of the neighboring dwarven rune blacksmiths that can unleash destructive power on the battlefield. More importantly, almost all of their spells require anvils and forges as a medium, which is why the Vaal priests were unable to cast any effective spells during the breakout.

However, things took a silent turn.

As the Duruch soldiers and Asur prisoners of war moved the tools, weapons, minerals, and food from the Val Anvil piece by piece, the staff officers unexpectedly discovered a serious problem during the inventory and tallying process—the food reserves to maintain the operation of the Val Anvil were not as sufficient as they had initially thought.

A more detailed investigation then commenced.

The result was shocking: the amount of food stored in the Val's Anvil was only enough to sustain the five thousand Asur garrison and one thousand Val priests for barely ten days.

After listening to the staff officer's report, Des pointed out that the existing mineral reserves of the Val Anvil were also insufficient to support long-term production. Miel added that the Val Anvil relied on regularly arriving transport teams that carried food and minerals, and also took away the finished forged weapons.

A massive, wide-ranging interrogation was immediately launched.

The results were quickly revealed.

It turned out that the three thousand Asur reinforcements that had arrived earlier were lightly equipped. They had rushed there with almost no extra supplies and no spellcasters who could turn the tide of the battle.

The joint meeting commenced swiftly, a tense and taut meeting where, under the flickering lights, the officers' eyes gleamed with fire, and the air was thick with a stifling heat.

Ultimately, Hadris, who was in charge of the navy, and Tyrande, who was in charge of the army, jointly decided to launch additional operations immediately after the Battle of Val's Anvil.

The reason is simple: their soldiers are restless, their chests burning with a fiery desire for battle.

Everyone desires military merit, which is equivalent to points, and points are money!

This equation is already etched into Duruci's very being.

Even if it costs them their lives, they will never back down an inch!

As for the issue of supplies, it's not a problem at all.

The Black Ark—the Fortress of Eternal Fear—serves as the central hub and core of resource storage, with mountains of supplies enough to sustain high-intensity combat for six months. The supplies brought from Anaheim, like an endless black tide, are compressed into the Ark's massive warehouse, awaiting distribution and unloading.

Lost raiding ships...

It's not worth mentioning at all; there's an overcapacity problem. Take a look.

Strictly speaking, overcapacity is inaccurate; it is a serious imbalance between production and demand, which is overproduction.

Production far exceeded actual consumption, which was directly reflected in the large number of unused raiding ships and armaments stockpiled in the Black Ark.

The situation was like building ten thousand airplanes, but only having two thousand pilots. The rest could only sit idle, gathering dust, waiting to be activated at any moment.

At the strategic level, Trucchi's ultimate will is also very clear.

While the relationship between the Kingdom of Elion and the Kingdom of Caledo appears to be monolithic in general, there are subtle nuances and opportunities for maneuvering in the details. The political system of Asur dictates that their kingdom and nobility are not a united front, but rather riddled with numerous loopholes that can be exploited, won over, or undermined.

Therefore, Duruci's ultimate judgment was that a portion of the forces within the Kingdom of Elion could be won over and even utilized. For this reason, in the initial landing operation, Duruci did not immediately launch a full-scale offensive against Tar Usvi, but instead chose to persuade him to surrender. This strategy quickly proved effective—Eldalia Goldman's actions served as an excellent example.

The Kingdom of Caledon was completely different.

If the nobles of Elion are merely passengers on this colossal ship, then the dragon princes of Caledon are the captains gripping the helm. They represent direction and will, destined to be unshakeable.

As a result, the situation naturally escalated into a more acute confrontation.

A portion of the Duruch troops who had been left on the Black Ark when the battle on the volcano island broke out immediately received new orders. They landed and set off through the passage, advancing northward along the path taken by the Asur reinforcements.

Patrolling and scouting were no challenge for Duruch. The Fifteenth Army had several Asleys and Eniers, all skilled route finders who could easily traverse forests and mountains. Moreover, the Fifteenth Army was a mountain army, specializing in forest and mountain warfare.

At the same time, the navy's actions were also underway.

Under Hadris's command, the fleet used the magical mist as cover, gliding silently along the coastline like a lurking ghost fleet, ready to provide support when most needed.

Despite incomplete intelligence and a lack of detailed information about the specific size and movements of the reinforcements, luck unexpectedly smiled upon them.

As predicted, the Asur reinforcements arrived, and were spotted by Tyrandor, who were hiding among the clouds, during their march.

Therefore, the army immediately began pre-deployment along the possible routes of reinforcements, setting up three huge ambush zones.

To ensure fairness in the allocation and maintain morale, the three legion commanders personally drew lots. With each draw, the legion's destination was determined; whoever drew which area would be sent to the ambush zone.

As long as Asur's reinforcements' final destination is Val's Anvil, instead of turning back halfway, they will inevitably step into a pre-laid ambush, no matter which route they choose.

This is a vast net, a meticulously woven trap that has awaited them from the very beginning. Each ambush is like a bloody net, waiting for its prey to stumble in.

Ultimately, Asur's reinforcements chose to follow the route previously taken by Asanil's previous reinforcements. It was a relatively easy coastal road, with howling sea winds and a wide field of vision, seemingly safe but actually fraught with danger.

By the time the dragon mage leading the group, Imralis, finally realized something was amiss on the sea, it was too late. The mist quietly dissipated, revealing the enemy figures that had been lying in ambush for some time.

Just as he realized the danger, a deafening shout suddenly came from the mountains. The army and navy guards who were lying in ambush in the mountains suddenly rushed out, like an iron gate suddenly closing. The crossbows on the high ground looked down, and the cold arrows turned into a torrential rain, whistling and crashing into Asur's troops.

Asur's forces were caught off guard and completely divided and disintegrated. Shouts and cries echoed between the coast and the valley. Chaos and despair almost instantly swallowed up all resistance.

Duruci's side executed a near-perfect ambush, a victory worthy of being written into the manual and becoming a legendary example.

With the death of the dragon mage Imralis, the Asur reinforcements, carrying a large amount of supplies and hopes, completely collapsed and were ultimately wiped out in blood and fire.

This battle was undoubtedly glorious and thorough, but even so, an unexpected event occurred in the final stages.

Fortunately, the incident was manageable and was quickly dealt with by the seafood feast, like a tiny ripple swallowed up in the surging torrent of victory.

On this day, the dragon mage Imralis died in battle, the dragon prince Aserion died in battle, five dragon princes died in battle, 1,500 of the two thousand reinforcements fell in an ambush on the coastline, and the remaining five hundred were captured.

And Arthur Lyon was this unexpected addition, or more accurately, a sudden "bonus".

In terms of family relationships, Astarion is the younger brother of Asherion, Asnil is the son of Astarion, and Assanil is the son of Asherion.

As for why Arthur Leon was involved in this doomed battle... that is itself a question tinged with fate.

At the end, in the battle at the Shrine of Cairne, the responsibility of commanding the army of Asur fell on the shoulders of siblings Anaran and Anariri, the children of Alaran's brother, Azsarian.

In their dreams, they learned of Azarion's death at Elsin Alwyn. Azarion's spirit visited the siblings and instructed them that after his passing, their duty was not only to protect the Kingdom of Iris, but also to safeguard the legacy left by their ancestors.

Unfortunately, they were unable to fulfill their uncle's wishes and both died in battle at the Shrine of Kane.

Another system is the Guidestone system. Typically, Asur nobles bind their souls to a Guidestone using magical ornaments. This way, even after death in battle, their souls can be guided back to the Guidestone, avoiding entry into the Slaanesh's realm or the Underworld.

Of course, all of this has prerequisites: the soul must be strong enough, and the identity of the enemy fought before death is also important, especially if one encounters a guardian of secrets...

GG!

So the souls of Astarion and Asanil, returning to Tar Sarn, visited Astarion with resentment and warning. They appeared in Astarion's sleep like phantoms emerging from the mist, or like the suppressed whispers of the dead, coldly informing him of the situation at the Val Anvil.

When Arthur Lyon awoke, he felt as if the sky was pressing down on him, the air was stagnant, and his chest was so tight that he could hardly breathe. In that instant, he realized that something terrible was about to happen.

He scrambled out of bed, donned his armor, and led the few cavalrymen he had with him on the march. At that moment, his eyes held no hesitation, only resolute determination and anxiety. He was determined to catch up with the reinforcements led by Imralis; he knew that if he acted sooner, there might still be a chance.

However, fate was extremely cruel.

In the end, we were still a step too late.

As he was about to reunite with reinforcements, what he saw was not his comrades-in-arms, but a battle formation that had collapsed. The reinforcements had been ambushed, their ranks shattered, their flags tossed about, and cries of agony and roars filled the air. The entire army resembled a giant beast impaled by spears, struggling in its death throes but ultimately being surrounded by Duruci's iron wall.

Seeing that things were hopeless, Arthur's heart sank, and he almost coughed up blood. He gritted his teeth and prepared to retreat, but before he could turn around, an unexpected shadow loomed over him. The seafood feast that had set out from the Black Ark, with its mocking and ruthless hunting spirit, spotted him immediately.

It turns out that things that swim in the sky are faster than things that run on the ground.

No matter how hard Atherian's cavalry charged, they couldn't shake off the aerial pursuit. Soon, they were completely surrounded. Worse still, the terrain was uneven; hills and rocks made it difficult for the cavalry to form ranks and unleash the power of a charge. Even more frustrating, even if they did charge, they couldn't reach the enemy at all.

The seafood feast disregarded martial ethics and even the slightest chivalrous spirit of dueling. They merely hovered in mid-air, launching attacks with chilling long-range firepower and sinister magic, constantly wearing down Aserion's troops like toying with prey.

Ultimately, following Astarion, Asanir, and another cousin, Astarion's soul inevitably went to the guidestone of Tar Saln and joined the ranks of his ancestors.

After the ambush, Duruchi, having exceeded his mission expectations, retreated, bypassing the Dragonspine Mountains and quietly heading towards Lorthen.

As for landing in the core area of ​​the Kingdom of Caledo, that's something we'll have to do sooner or later, but definitely not at this stage.

The time has not come yet.

Truc's schemes were deep and ruthless.

They were waiting, waiting for the main force of the Kingdom of Caledon to be dragged into the quagmire of the Kingdom of Elion, waiting for the defenses of the Kingdom of Caledon's homeland to become empty and powerless, even without any defensive capabilities, and waiting for the pieces from the direction of the Kingdom of Terenlock to fall completely.

Then they will suddenly descend, piercing the heart of the entire kingdom like a sharp blade cutting through flesh.

One hit!
At that time, an unsolvable and cruel choice will be placed before the Kingdom of Caledo.

Once the main force leaves the kingdom's homeland, Duruci will launch simultaneous landings in the inland sea and the vast ocean, attacking from three directions. With their home base stolen and their retreat cut off, they will be attacked from both sides.

If they do not enter the Kingdom of Elion, their connection with their allies will be completely severed, which is tantamount to watching helplessly as their allies are divided and annihilated, leaving them only able to hold out alone on the cliffs of Caledon.

And the root of all this is precisely because...

Finnubar, that traitor, he deserves to die!
If he hadn't personally opened the gates of Lorthorn, if he hadn't handed over the key to the Inner Sea, how could Duruci have marched so unimpeded? How could the war have deteriorated to this point! How could Ulthuan have slid step by step into the abyss?

(End of Chapter)