Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The moment before a word was spoken, the air in the entire hall seemed to freeze, all sound vanishing without a trace. There was no panting, no breathing, not even the slight crackling of the candlelight, as if extinguished by an invisible hand.

The elves, who had just relaxed, tensed up again, as if suddenly pulled back from a taut string. Every expression was one of astonishment, their faces showing fear, disbelief, and some even instinctively held their breath, their eyes reflecting the flickering firelight, as if awaiting some unspeakable judgment. The warm atmosphere brought by the applause was instantly swallowed by the cold, bloody premonition; the ease and comfort, like an illusion, shattered in an instant.

Schrinassto's pupils contracted slightly, his fingertips unconsciously curling on the tabletop, his nails scraping against the wood grain, making an almost inaudible sound. He knew he could no longer back down, nor did he have any room to do so. Those ten lives, whoever was drawn, would be carried out by his own hands. This was an order, not a choice. This was the cold, ruthless side of power, an indisputable inevitability. He could even feel the weight on his shoulders, like a thousand-pound boulder, making his breathing increasingly heavy.

No one lamented Darkus's capriciousness. One moment they were laughing and embracing, the next he was ordering executions. The stark contrast sent chills down the spines of the elves present. There was no time for questioning, no room for reaction. That capricious change was like a sudden storm, without warning, yet enough to destroy any chance of escape.

No, there's nothing at all, only what's taken for granted.

Orders that are taken for granted, and obedience that is taken for granted.

Regarding the laws and crimes of Ausuan, taking Tal Corelli, the capital of the Kingdom of Kosqui, as an example, there are two courts with different jurisdictions. One is the Royal Court, located in the vaulted meeting hall of the palace, with no separate court. Cases involving Kosquian citizens and nobles are adjudicated here. It is a spacious hall, its dome covered with exquisite reliefs depicting ancient legends and symbols of legal codes, inspiring awe.

The citizen on trial had to stand on a platform, facing a jury of eight nobles seated around a crescent-shaped table. The oppressive feeling of being stared at was like being pierced by a sharp blade, making any defense seem pale and futile.

In rare cases, specifically when nobles were on trial, Prince Darrowland would personally serve as judge. This was a breathtaking spectacle, for his presence represented not only personal authority but also the embodiment of the entire Kosquieu legal and power system.

Interestingly, this crescent-shaped table was transported from the continent of Lustria, and not far from the table is the ceremonial throne, carved from white marble into the shape of a giant scallop shell, with delicate and solemn lines. Darrowland usually sits at the conference table during gatherings, only ascending the throne when welcoming foreign ambassadors. That ascent is not only a matter of etiquette but also a display of immense power.

The other is the Hall of Agreement, representing the Phoenix King's highest court. It is located in a square alabaster tower and represents the Phoenix King's court. The Phoenix King's messengers or visiting Phoenix Kings stay here during diplomatic visits. Normally, it is more like a trade embassy than a palace, but when trials are held, every wall seems to whisper the weight of politics.

Because the Hall of Agreement is only used when the subject of the trial is involved with Trudeau or politics, it is a different level of confrontation, not only a contest of law, but also a political test and game.

Dakos had spoken with Bellorda about this matter, and according to his plan at the time, if Bellorda had successfully returned to Ulthuan, she would have been questioned and tried in the Hall of Agreements.

During this period, political maneuvering also took place, with factional struggles within the Kingdom of Kosqui and clashes between the Kingdom of Kosqui and the Kingdom of Ausuan, layer upon layer, like surging tides.

There is nothing new under the sun. The entanglement of human nature, power, and interests has been playing out in different worlds throughout history, only with different faces and new cloaks.

Ultimately, Bellorda will have a high chance of being saved because of her powerful background; those seemingly unbreakable family ties and alliance promises will become her shield. But her and her family's reputation... will ultimately be tarnished by this incident, leaving an indelible rift.

This is also why Belloda refused to disembark when the fleet passed the drifting islands. At that time, she was free, and if she wanted, she could have easily jumped into the churning waves in front of Dakota, seeking freedom in the most primal way.

A type of marine creature called flying fish lives near the drifting islands. They travel in groups, their silver scales shimmering in the sunlight, and when they leap out of the water, they seem to briefly transform into fragments of the sky.

As the Storm Weaver, once she enters the sea, she is like a fish returning to the ocean. The pulse of the water echoes her heartbeat, and the currents follow her will. She can easily command flying fish to escort her all the way back to the Kingdom of Kosqui.

But she didn't do that; she chose to stay on the deck and head towards the unknown.

I have to say... these sisters have big hearts.

Penalties are typically divided into three levels.

Medium: A period of imprisonment and forced wearing of the Sama Atalaktik gem.

Though described as a gemstone, it is actually an exquisitely crafted armlet. The surface is etched with patterns by artisans, exuding a cold elegance, and imbued with magic. It is inlaid with multiple faceted gemstones, each shimmering subtly, as if gazing upon the wearer from the shadows. Without magical intervention, the gemstones cannot be installed, removed, or destroyed, thus becoming another form of cage.

It allows the wearer to be tracked through a second eye. As long as the armband is worn, its energy leaves a unique mark in the flow of magical winds, like an indelible trace. If the wearer harbors ill intentions or commits acts of violence, the dormant spell stored in the gem will be triggered immediately, extinguishing it like a flame being instantly extinguished.

It's a bit... no, it's just another manifestation of electronic ankle bracelets, except that due to certain conditions, the mundane restrictions have been replaced with arcane locks.

Serious offense: Serving 1-5 years of forced labor for the plaintiff.

Those guilty of heinous crimes... may be executed, thrown off a cliff into the sea to become sacrifices for Matheran; or exiled to the continent of Lustia.

As for the specific location of exile... how about Ledang Island on the Anuriel Peninsula? (Chapter 169)
Schrinassto is a magic swordsman, but when it comes to handling these matters, he becomes a secret police officer, and not just any ordinary one, but a high-ranking and powerful figure who can almost give orders directly.

It can be said that his rank was very high... Director of the Operations Division of the Bureau of Statistics? He held the rank of Major General.

Before Liv set off, Darkus had spoken with her, telling her that if they encountered cultists in the Avalon Forest, she should find a way to bring them back. If Liv hadn't spoken up, he would have ordered them all executed back in the Avalon Forest.

Without hesitation, without delay.

His sword was originally designed for this purpose.

In Ulthuan, once cults like the Chaos Cult or the Pleasure Cult are involved, especially after the Hothic faction enters the fray, there is almost no room for negotiation.

He is utterly wicked and deserves to be executed!
They didn't even need a trial; they were executed directly.

The identity of the Sword Saint Hoss was thus abruptly transformed into that of Hal Gonzai, the Executioner...

Is the secret police a joke?

of course not.

They don't care about your lineage, your family, or your kingdom. If you cross any taboo, they will act. Their very existence is the darkest shadow of Ulthuan.

This is also why the Hoss faction is now in a passive position. There is a mole within the secret police, and this mole almost killed the Eternal Queen.

This is undoubtedly a huge scandal that will shake the entire city of Ausuan!
If this matter isn't covered up and spreads, the consequences will be unbearable for the already collapsing Hossian system. Reputation, power, alliances, and trust will all crumble in the aftermath of the scandal. At that point, the Hossian system will have to face a genuine upheaval, not just a scandal that can be easily downplayed and covered up.

So Schrinassto stood up again, head held high, and pounded his fist heavily on his chest, producing a deep, powerful echo, signifying that he had accepted the task. At this moment, his action was not merely a formality, but rather a solemn oath, a resolute commitment to his mission.

“I will stay here for another week,” Darkus said after Schrinassto had sat down again.

His voice wasn't loud, but it struck straight to the heart like clashing metal. As he spoke, he turned his gaze to Arelani and Asantir, his eyes making no attempt to conceal his meaning; his intention couldn't be clearer.

They both nodded simultaneously, without hesitation or explanation. They knew in their hearts that this week was a deadline. A cold countdown forced the Hossian faction to give Dakos an answer, a clear political outcome.

“This…book? Yes, this report on unusual behavior is for you. I also have an action report, but I didn’t bring it. I’ll have someone bring it to you later.” Darkus nodded, his movements unhurried, then turned his gaze back to Schrinassto.
Schrinassto stood up again, but before he could speak, he was stopped by a slight gesture from Dakous.

In that instant, the atmosphere tensed up again, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for that hand to be lowered.

“Pick some typical cases…you know.” Darkus’s voice was indifferent, yet sharp.

“I know! I will give you a satisfactory answer!” Schrinusto replied decisively.

To have reached this level means that Schrinassto is no fool; otherwise, he would have opened a hotel too. (Chapter 784, Hadris's Light Hotel)

Besides his swordsmanship and spellcasting skills, he also understood politics. Although Darkus said almost nothing, he had already grasped the subtext. It was a tacit understanding that only those involved could comprehend: silence speaks louder than words.

"Shall we talk about something else?" Darkus suddenly changed the subject, his tone softening. The attendees nodded in agreement. He then looked at Miseria, his tone carrying a hint of nonchalant teasing, "You're Hosa's close friend, you..."

Before he could finish speaking, as if someone had poked his butt, Miseria jumped up from his chair.

“The meeting is over, now it’s time for casual conversation.” Darkus watched this scene, fully aware of the situation.

So, a smile appeared on his lips, and he waved his hand gently, signaling Miserion not to be so nervous.

Once the tone was set, Miseria remained silent for a moment, hesitating repeatedly before finally sitting down slowly. His face was ashen, as if shrouded in dark clouds, his brows furrowed tightly, as if etched with wrinkles that could never be smoothed over. After a long while, he finally spoke, his voice low and heavy with memories and pain.

"He...was raised with the teachings of the Horace Church, revered knowledge, pursued truth, and was known for his calm silence. He rarely spoke to anyone, his words were always brief and precise, he never showed passion or desire. I once thought he was the most steadfast, the least likely to stray..."

Finally, he sighed, a sigh that seemed to carry away the last vestige of hope in his heart. He shook his head, his eyes growing dimmer, his face darker, and his brows furrowing even more tightly, almost forming a knot.

“I remember!” His expression shifted abruptly, from somber to pain and self-reproach. The light in his eyes seemed to be pierced again by the sharp sword of memory. He gritted his teeth, his voice trembling slightly, “He once told me that he had discovered the rhythm of words could inspire new magical deductions. At the time, I didn’t doubt it; you all know the logic of Elsalin…”

This time, the attendees nodded one after another, their expressions showing a sense of sudden realization.

Yeah, who would have thought of that?
If Mithrion hadn't spoken it himself, everyone would probably have overlooked that subtle yet dangerous sign. And it's a well-known fact that the characteristics of the Elsalin language can indeed inspire new magical deductions.

The spells chanted by Asur spellcasters are all based on Elsalin. In contrast, Drushir, the language of the Drushir, is a dark language forcibly spliced ​​onto the framework of Elsalin to better utilize Dhāra. When Tigris oversaw the establishment of the Aldolf Academy of Magic, the spells used by human spellcasters were merely simplified versions of Elsalin, almost like a rudimentary version of chanting.

The roots of language have never changed; what has changed is its depth and purity.

“Once, I noticed him staring at the flames for a long time,” Miserion said slowly, as if the memory were replaying before his eyes. The flickering flames illuminated his friend’s profile, revealing his calm, almost aloof, eyes.

"After I asked him, he told me that he was observing whether the movements corresponded to a certain musical rhythm. After that... his spells became exceptionally elegant and deadly. Even just hearing his chanting would make me involuntarily hold my breath and tremble. The feeling was like silk enveloping me, yet it carried the sharpness of a blade, as if beauty and death vibrated on the same string."

He paused, took a deep breath, and his voice lowered. "I asked him, and his response was to break down the spell into syllables and then chant them in different orders. He treated language as rhythm, order as melody, and magic as a song."

The attendees exchanged glances, their expressions subtle. The dangerous creativity sounded unsettling, yet they couldn't deny its allure.

"On the surface, he remained as silent as ever, never displaying fanaticism or losing control in public. He still prayed in the name of Hoss, still wore a spotless scholar's robe, and still refused any banquets or pleasures." Miseria slowly shook his head, his tone filled with an indescribable regret. "The only change was that his eyes became increasingly profound, as if hiding some kind of rhythm that others could not see."

Seeing that Miserion had fallen silent and was deep in thought, Darkus turned his head and looked at Schrinastó. Schrinastó nodded heavily to him, his stance decisive and straightforward. Only after Schrinastó accepted the task of conducting further investigations did Darkus turn back to Fenrère.

This time, Fenrir was a little confused. He paused for a moment, his expression filled with incomprehension and bewilderment, his brows furrowed, as if he couldn't keep up with the pace of his thoughts.

"Analyze it!" Darkus said, speechless.

"Ah!" Fenrir exclaimed as if struck by a sudden realization, but then fell silent. The air in the conference room froze once more, and it wasn't until much later that he slowly began his analysis.

“He is taciturn for a long time, which indicates a highly introverted personality.” He spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing each word. “The energy and meaning of this personality mainly come from the inner world, rather than external communication. He closes himself off in the shell of his thoughts and does not rely on the gaze of others to confirm his self-identity.”

He paused for a moment, looked around, and then continued.

"Such a personality can easily lead to a high degree of self-isolation in thought, and at the same time, it is difficult to accept external correction. He pursues the order of magic, the purity of knowledge, and the elegance of form. This reflects typical perfectionist traits. Perfectionism can create knowledge and art when it is healthy, but when it becomes obsessive, it leads to an endless pursuit of higher levels and ultimate beauty."

"That's it?" Darkus raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it!” Fenrir spread his hands, gave a wry smile, and then looked at Miserion. “The trigger is missing, but it’s not impossible to unfold.”

He paused for a moment before lowering his voice to add.

"He must have come into contact with some kind of medium. The medium is essentially a breach in a cognitive framework. His original religious beliefs lost their exclusivity when faced with the temptation of a higher harmony. New cognition then took the opportunity to seep in, like a tide, gradually encroaching on his mind."

He still considered himself a follower of Hoss, but his actions and thoughts had gradually diverged. To alleviate this conflict, he would subconsciously seek rationalizations for his new inclinations, such as… is it merely a purer extension of scholarship? A higher level of research? Another interpretation of truth? Only under such self-comfort could he barely maintain his sense of identity as a believer.

Fenrir's voice was unhurried, as if he were carefully opening a dangerous wound.

"His attention gradually shifted from knowledge and truth to form and beauty, which is a psychological shift. His learning behavior is no longer a rational accumulation, but more like the satisfaction of senses and emotions, which marks that he has entered a potential addiction mode."

He paused, his gaze thoughtful, as if trying to find a more appropriate word.

"His constant deduction of symbols and chanting of syllables indicates the presence of compulsive elements in his thinking. This is not a simple rational exploration, but rather a kind of impulse that must be repeated, as if there is an invisible hand in his heart, forcing him to repeat and indulge in it continuously."

"Long-term suppression of senses and desires in order to maintain calmness and purity, the media provides an outlet for these repressed psychological energies. Thus, they appear in the form of beauty under the guise of academic pursuit, thereby avoiding direct contact with feelings of shame or betrayal. This is a form of self-defense, and also a form of self-deception."

After rambling on for a while, Fenrir finally stopped talking.

His lips moved slightly, but he didn't continue. His expression was conflicted, and his brows were furrowed with hesitation. He glanced subconsciously at Schrinastow, then at Arelani and Asantir, his eyes flickering as if he were both afraid and mustering his courage.

Finally, he mustered his courage, and his tone suddenly became firm.

"Hoss's doctrines represent the moral and rational constraints of the superego, while the forms and temptations of the medium reinforce the desires of the id for satisfaction. His ego oscillates between the two, gradually becoming unbalanced."

"Fenrir!"

Sure enough, as soon as Fenrir finished speaking, his mentor, Arelani, immediately rebuked him. Her voice was cold and sharp, filled with undisguised anger and shock, as if she were trying to pull him back from the brink of danger.

Meanwhile, Darkus tilted his head to the side, covering his mouth with his hand and chuckling. He laughed extremely unrestrainedly, his shoulders trembling slightly. In his eyes, Fenrir was truly a heretic.

What an oddity in the Horace system!

Is this something you can just say? Dude, you're really brave! Criticizing Hominidism—is this something you can just casually say? Is this something you can say to someone's face? What's the difference between this and going all out at point-blank range?!
Liv couldn't help but smile too. She abruptly turned her head in his direction, her lips twitching uncontrollably. Clearly, she was trying her best to control herself and prevent her laughter from bursting out in the room.

After Fenrir finished speaking, he simply shrugged, as if he had nothing to lose, and his eyes revealed a kind of nonchalant indifference, as if he was shouting in his heart: Whatever, I've already said it anyway.

Just as Arelani was about to launch into further criticism, Asantir, who was standing beside her, suddenly reached out and gently grabbed her arm, giving her a look that could not be ignored.

It was a reminder, and also a hint.

This is what you call a step, and that's how it came about.

Arelani sighed, the anger in her heart slowly subsiding, replaced by a sense of helplessness. She raised her hand and rubbed her forehead vigorously, as if trying to dispel a headache. Her disciple had always been like this—unconventional and reckless; she had grown accustomed to it, even numb to it. But deep down, she had to admit that Fenrir's analysis might be correct.

As a follower of Hoss, she was well aware of the true meaning of Hoss's doctrines and understood the danger of this conflict. In that instant, her expression was complex, containing both the anger of her teacher and a reluctant acceptance of the truth.

"You've actually come up with something." After finally suppressing the urge to burst out laughing, Darkus finally offered his assessment. His tone was a mix of teasing and unexpected seriousness, as if oscillating between joke and approval.

Upon hearing this, Fenrir paused for a moment, then turned around, his face a picture of utter disbelief. "Dude, are you serious? Am I really that stupid?" His expression was so vivid, it was as if he were silently scoffing: "Isn't this obvious? Does it even need studying?"
Darkus glanced at him, a smile playing on his lips, but his eyes quickly shifted to Asantir.

"What do you think of Fenrir's research?" He wanted to hear the judgment of another Horace scholar.

“High introversion, lack of social support and correction; perfectionism, leading to an endless pursuit of a higher order; media opens up a breakthrough in cognition; aesthetic addiction, sensory addiction replaces rational pursuit; repressed desires are quietly released in the form of knowledge.”

Ashantir didn't hesitate and almost immediately joined in. He further refined and summarized Fenrir's points, nodding repeatedly as he spoke, his eyes revealing a sense of approval that the analysis was reliable.

As he finished speaking, his pace suddenly slowed, and he revealed a look of sudden realization. Then he raised his eyebrows slightly, as if he had suddenly realized something.

"Wait? Is this considered a mentor's evaluation?"

As he spoke, he slowly looked at Arelani with a playful, half-teasing, half-inquisitive gaze.

"It doesn't count!" Arelani said decisively, her words as swift as a sword severing all ambiguity, leaving no room for speculation.

"Hahahaha!" Darkus finally couldn't hold back this time, and his laughter burst out heartily. After he finished laughing, he shook his head with a hint of lingering pleasure and said in a teasing tone, "Looks like you still have a long way to go before you graduate."

“I will keep trying!” Finrell shrugged.

"To the future!" Darkus suddenly raised his hand, making a gesture as if holding a wine glass, and gestured to Fenrir. His movement was fluid and natural, carrying a unique sense of ritual.

This is not an ordinary joke, but a contract.

In Chappejuto, he spoke with Fenrir. Or more accurately, it was under his guidance that Fenrir, who had originally intended to remain in Ashriel, gradually turned his attention to psychology rather than chronicles—that was fifty years ago. (Chapter 610)
Clearly, Finrel did not waste those fifty years. He researched many new things and made significant contributions to psychology. Now, only one step remained—to organize and publish his findings, gain recognition, and become the master and founder of his school of thought.

In elven society, systematic psychology and psychological assessment are urgently needed disciplines.

Unfortunately, elves are an inherently perfectionist race, and once they go to extremes, they easily fall into obsession.

This is one of the curses of the elves, after all, they are an immortal species. As time goes by, their inner turmoil accumulates.

At the end of their chat, they solemnly said, "To the future!"

"To the future!" Fenrir responded by raising his hand as if to hold a wine glass.

In that instant, it was as if time had turned back, and the expressions of the two carried a certain tacit understanding and solemnity.

"Is that all? My guest is getting impatient."

"No, no, please continue," Eldan quickly said, his words carrying a hint of politeness.

Despite Eldan's words, the attendees instinctively turned their gazes to Darkus. Everyone knew that the final decision always rested with him.

"If there is nothing to add, the meeting is adjourned," Darkus said slowly, his voice steady.

In fact, there was one more thing he didn't say. But in his mind, things were divided into four categories: urgent and needing immediate attention; urgent and long-term; not urgent, but needing immediate attention; and not urgent and long-term.

He categorized this matter as the last item—not urgent and long-term. It could be brought up after the war; he wanted to make a linguistic point.

A moment later, everyone except Darkus, Eldan, and Miserion had dispersed.

But this doesn't mean it's over; on the contrary, it's just the beginning of a new round of competition. (End of Chapter)