Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The moment the reveille sounded, Ryan Deer jolted awake, his eyes sharp and piercing, like a startled predator. Almost instinctively, he sat bolt upright, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword. The cold steel instantly jolted him awake, his breath catching in his throat. His peripheral vision darted around, a wary glance sweeping across his surroundings, as if someone might burst through the tent at any moment.

However, just a second later, his consciousness returned completely, and he realized that he was in the camp. He frowned, then let out a long breath, slowly relaxing the tension in his chest.

He shook his head slightly, a suppressed sigh escaping his throat.

He had left Azsorloth, left the dense, deep forests of Anmir, and crossed the ocean to Ulthuan. Now he was on the land of the Kingdom of Elion. It was still a forest, but the atmosphere was different, carrying the unfamiliarity of a foreign land.

"I'm not used to it."

"Yes."

"I feel like I just fell asleep a second ago... is that strange?"

Ryan Deer didn't respond to his siblings' conversation; his thoughts were still not completely free from that sense of disorientation. He ducked out of the tent, and as he lifted the curtain, the afternoon sun shone on his face. The moment he emerged, his gaze caught the figures of the two Duruci, who also emerged at almost the same time.

Kaylamaine glanced at him, her gaze deep, and said nothing, only nodding slightly. Then, she turned and gave Drakil a look, nodding in acknowledgment, before turning and walking steadily toward the other side of the camp.

“Him?” Ryan Deer walked over slowly, his gaze fixed on the receding figure, a look of confusion on his face. He stopped beside Drakil and asked in a low voice.

“Him? He’s the captain, and he has to fulfill his duties as captain.” Drakil’s tone was flat, offering a casual explanation before refusing to elaborate. He walked towards a cart not far away, where armor lay quietly, its metallic gleam shimmering in the sunlight. He examined it closely for a few moments, his gaze scrutinizing, before raising his hand to beckon the Asleys, who had already emerged from the tents, to come over.

"Take off your cloak and remove your hood." He spoke concisely, with a commanding tone, leaving no room for negotiation.

The Asleys exchanged glances but did not object. Perhaps they had gradually accepted the atmosphere of the military camp, or perhaps it was out of some subconscious obedience, but they seemed to have truly integrated into the camp and began to silently follow orders.

“You will be fighting on chariots from now on.” Drakil watched their movements, his tone slightly softer than before, and added an explanation, “You’ll understand why we had to take off our cloaks once you see the chariots. As for the hoods…” He paused, reached into the cart, took a helmet, held it gently in his hand, then looked around at them and said calmly, “If you insist on wearing one, you can put the hood over the helmet.”

Ryan Deer was the first to step forward. As soon as he put on the helmet, De Lakiel's gaze swept over him like a sharp blade, carefully observing his entire demeanor and posture.

A moment later, Drakil took out a full breastplate from the cart, but this time, he did not hand it to Ryandeer immediately, but held it in his hand first.

"You'll have to take off your clothes too; they're too big," he said calmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You should have been assigned military uniforms by now; you can wear them underneath your clothes."

"Why don't we just take everything off?" Irisra suddenly spoke, her tone carrying a hint of mockery and provocation, like a needle gently piercing the oppressive air.

“If you don’t mind, ma’am,” Drakil replied curtly. He placed the breastplate back on the cart, then pulled out a cigarette case from his pocket, took out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth. The metal lighter clicked crisply in his hand, the flame flickering in the wind. He lowered his head, took a light drag, and exhaled the smoke slowly before leaning against the edge of the cart, looking relaxed and nonchalant.

There was nothing to it; I was just joking. And there was nothing more. Instead of returning to her tent alone like a demure young girl, Irisla stood openly with her brothers in the campsite, taking off her clothes one by one. The cool breeze blowing down from the crater brushed against their bare skin, sending a barely perceptible shiver through them.

“You should have opened your packs first; it’s a bit chilly here.” Dragil leaned against the edge of the cart, smoking a cigarette as he lazily observed the scene before him, his tone carrying a hint of mockery.

When the Asleys had stripped down to only what covered their essential parts, Serarian raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"You should have told us first."

"Vest, put this on first." Dragil didn't respond, but took a few steps closer to them and pointed to a cotton vest in his sack.

His gaze swept over everything, finally settling on Irisla's luggage, where he paused for a moment. He bent down and pointed to the neatly folded fabric inside. "As for you, you should wear this first, then the vest." It was a woman's bra, he pointed out without any hesitation, his tone devoid of any teasing, but rather carrying a matter-of-fact calmness and directness.

At this point, he pointed into the distance, his tone indifferent yet undeniably authoritative, "You can change your underwear tonight, after you shower."

The changing process didn't take long. Although the style of the clothes was somewhat unfamiliar, the Asleys were skilled and efficient, finishing in the time it takes to smoke half a cigarette. Even when changing her undergarments, Iris didn't shy away like a delicate young girl. Instead, like a true warrior, she straightened her back and meticulously completed the task in front of her comrades.

These Asleys, though initially behaving like greenhorns—reserved and awkward—were simply adapting to a new environment. In reality, they weren't inexperienced rookies, but true veterans. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been selected, nor would they be here. As elite soldiers, they needed time to rediscover their warrior rhythm.

When the Black Knights appeared, they were already fully armed, standing in a row, backs straight, eyes serious, awaiting further instructions.

"Look, the chain dog is here."

Drakil was about to instruct them on how to put on their armor when he suddenly caught sight of that figure out of the corner of his eye. He muttered something under his breath, a cold smile playing on his lips. Before he finished speaking, he raised his hand and took a deep drag on his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs as if trying to suppress his irritation with its harsh taste. He practically finished half the cigarette in one go, then flicked the butt away and turned to face the Black Knight.

In the Truc army, the soldiers had their own dark humor. They called the hunting dogs kept in the barracks "Black Wolves," and these high-ranking black knights "Chain Dogs."

This nickname is both a mockery and a silent expression of resentment.

The Black Knights wielded immense authority, acted arrogantly, and were ruthless. The Duruqi warriors both feared and hated them, and thus the clandestine nickname "Chain Dog" spread.

This title is not unfounded.

The "Hadric" worn on the chest of the Black Knight—that crescent-shaped plaque—is a symbol of their status. In the old days, the nobles of Duruci also wore Hadrics to demonstrate their lineage and position.

But with the arrival of the new era and the emergence of the Black Knight, the nobles of Durucci no longer wore Hadrica to flaunt their noble status as they had in the old days. The reason was simple—it was beneath them, and there was no need for it anymore. With the advent of the new era, they had more symbols, badges, emblems, and more complex symbols of power to display their identity, and gradually the Hadrica became the exclusive domain of the Black Knight.

Ironically, while the Duruci warriors secretly cursed the chained dogs and looked at them with disdain, they all secretly longed to be that chained dog themselves.

Dragil knew perfectly well why the Black Knight had appeared at this time: to support the new Asleys and to see if they had been treated unfairly or if anyone had taken the opportunity to bully them.

But this tacit understanding did not prevent him from displaying the characteristics of a seasoned veteran—after giving a crisp military salute, he stood there casually, without saying a word, and stared directly at the Black Knight with a cold, provocative gaze.

The Black Knight sensed this attitude, his brow furrowing slightly before he merely glanced at him coldly and contemptuously, as if disdaining to speak further. Then, he abandoned his disdain, adopting a stern expression, his gaze sweeping over the Asleys, his expression solemn and stern, nodding as a clear response. Then, his boots twirled, the armor clanging, his footsteps resounding, as he prepared to continue forward.

"Wait! You're just leaving like that?" Drakil, his old soldier nature fully revealed, suddenly spoke up. His voice wasn't loud, but it was lazy with a hint of cunning, yet it carried an undisguised mockery, as if he had set a trap for the Black Knight on the spot.

"Hmm?" The Black Knight stopped in his tracks, snorted coldly, and turned around abruptly. He took a step forward, making the ground tremble, and in the next second he was standing directly in front of Drakil, with only a breath's width of space between them.

"Otherwise what?" he questioned in a low voice, his tone carrying an air of authority, as if he were about to crush the other person at any moment.

"Want to have a contest?" Drakil didn't back down. Instead, he stepped forward, his chest almost touching Drakil's, face to face, eye to eye. His gaze was stubborn and cold, like a flame ignited within him. Although he had never heard the phrase "a fox borrowing the tiger's might," he had a similar concept in his mind—as long as the Asleys were present, as long as the scene was under the watchful eyes of others, the Black Knight couldn't easily do anything to him, unless he himself went too far and touched a taboo.

The Black Knight narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze like two cold blades, fixed intently on him.

“Show our cousins ​​a demonstration?” Dragil, instead of backing down, pointed to the cart and the Asleys who were still standing there looking bewildered.

The Black Knight followed the gesture and immediately understood what Drakil wanted to compete in. After a moment of silence, he raised his left hand, glanced at his wristwatch, and then a mocking smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

The competition started quickly and ended just as quickly.

Drakil gritted his teeth and moved with lightning speed, but was a second too slow. Just as his back was halfway straightened, the Black Knight stood firmly in place, perfectly still, like an iron tower.

"Let's practice some more."

The Black Knight stared coldly at Drakil, his eyes filled with contempt, like looking at a hound struggling in vain. He then patted Drakil's shoulder lightly, but with an undeniable air of authority. His meaningful gaze swept over Drakil and the Asleys.

The meaning couldn't be clearer—this contest is just between you and me. Whether you lose or accept it, you can't take your anger out on these Asleys.

Drakil paused, then shrugged and gave a look that indicated he understood. The Black Knight then turned and walked away with steady steps, exuding an aura of oppression.

Watching the Black Knight's retreating figure, Drakil couldn't help but spit out a curse. He then raised his hand to touch his nose, revealing a helpless yet slightly self-deprecating smile. He knew very well that he couldn't win, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that he had used this opportunity to challenge the Black Knight's authority. He dared to stand up and confront that aura head-on.

Within the army, Kledan and the Black Knight embody the concepts of "King of Soldiers," "Strong Warriors," and "Glory." Soldiers genuinely respect and follow the former; while the latter... is quite the opposite.

Otherwise, the soldiers wouldn't have given them that barbed nickname in private—"Chain Dogs."

In fact, this practice had long been a peculiar custom within Truc's army. Although duels were explicitly prohibited, other forms of competition were not.

So, whenever the soldiers had a chance, they would always take advantage of the loopholes in the rules to make some small moves. They proved that they had stood up, even if only for a moment, and had once confronted those high and mighty beings. Although the Asleys were completely unaware of the atmosphere within the Truch Army, they were not stupid; they were enough to pick up on any subtle changes in the atmosphere that indicated something was amiss.

When Dragil turned to look at them, the four Asleys tacitly chose to pretend nothing was wrong: some stared at the ground pretending their minds were elsewhere, others looked up at the drifting clouds in the sky, and still others cast their gazes at the flags and tents in the distance of the camp, trying their best to alleviate the inexplicable embarrassment and anger emanating from Dragil.

Drakil scoffed inwardly but didn't expose him. He casually pulled out a suit of chainmail from the cart, and with a crisp clatter, walked straight to Philendil and began to demonstrate it with practiced ease, as if nothing had happened.

When Philendil was completely encased in armor, turning into a metal can, Ryandel couldn't help but glance at Drakil's expression. His gaze held a mixture of inquiry and hesitation, and he finally spoke softly.

"Is it mandatory to wear them all?"

Dragil's hands did not stop; he merely glanced at Ryan Deer, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable coldness.

"I'm just demonstrating now. How you wear it is up to you. But remember, in the military, you must wear a breastplate, throat guard, and helmet during the day, no matter what you're doing. You must carry your weapons. This is the rule, not something to discuss."

When Irisla was also wrapped in layers of armor plates and turned into another metal can, the Asleys's luggage was quickly packed away.

Dragil glanced at it, said nothing, and led four fully armed Asleys straight away from the tent area, eventually stopping at the area where the black wolves were kept.

The atmosphere here was completely different from that of the tent area, the air filled with the stench of wild animals and the smell of fur. Faced with the unfamiliar elves, the black wolves became restless. Some howled to the sky, their deep roars carrying a suppressed threat; some bared their teeth, their sharp fangs reflecting a cold light in the sunlight; and others simply pounced on the fence, their claws scratching at the wooden stakes, making a grating, ear-piercing creaking sound.

“These are your next companions. I think it’s necessary for you to get to know each other.” Drakil’s tone was casual, as if he were introducing something perfectly ordinary. After speaking, he picked up the iron bucket, drew water, and added water for the black wolves.

The four Asleys, though their expressions were solemn, showed no sign of backing down or turning to run away in fear. They simply stood there quietly, watching the black wolves with vigilance.

The wolf was strong, its muscles undulating beneath its fur, its glossy black coat gleaming coldly in the sunlight, and its orange eyes burning with hostility like flames.

But all of this was not unfamiliar to them. In the forests of Azsolo, they had dealt with wolves far and wide, and to them, these black wolves, no matter how ferocious, were still prey.

Sure enough, when they stopped just standing there and began to slowly approach the fence, the black wolves reacted more violently. The hounds began to back away, their fur standing on end, and they growled in a low voice. Confined by the wooden fence with nowhere to retreat, they became exceptionally agitated.

"Alright, alright." Drakil put down the bucket, flipped over and stepped over the fence, his movements swift and without hesitation. He soothed the black wolves while issuing short commands in a deep, rhythmic voice.

As a beast tamer, his words had a peculiar power over the black wolves. The originally restless hunting dogs gradually quieted down under his presence, their breathing became steady, and they stopped baring their teeth, though their eyes remained cold and fierce.

After a short while, the black wolves finally quieted down and stopped their restlessness. The Asleys thus completed their first encounter with the black wolves, a process filled with hostility and tension, but at least it marked the beginning.

But they didn't leave immediately, because Dragil had already changed his demeanor. He rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a shovel, and began cleaning up the feces and filth inside the fence. His movements were swift and efficient, without a trace of disgust, as if he were performing the most ordinary daily task.

"Is there anything we can do?" Ryan Deer asked after a moment's hesitation.

“It’s necessary, but not now.” Drakil said without looking up, then continued to concentrate on his work, as if at that moment, only his breathing and that of the black wolves echoed throughout the entire camp.

After all the chores were finished, he didn't waste any time and led the four Asleys towards the stables. The purpose of this trip was to introduce these veterans, who were playing the roles of new recruits, to their most important combat partners in the future.

Although it's called a stable, it's more like a combination of a stable and a parking garage. It's a long, sturdy, and practical connected building with roof beams reinforced with thick timber and iron buckles. The air is filled with the smells of hay, leather, and animals.

The elves entered from the back of the building, so the first thing they saw was not horses, but two imposing chariots with long, angular bodies, a combination of dark metal and hardwood, giving off a cold, battlefield vibe.

“This is your most important partner, so chariot maintenance is part of your daily routine.” Drakil’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an undeniable power. His gaze swept across the four Asleys’ faces, finally settling on a chariot.

The Asleys exchanged glances and nodded. They knew they had been told beforehand that they would be assigned to the tank unit, and tank warfare required not only courage and skill, but also meticulous maintenance. If a tank malfunctioned, it meant the death of the warrior, so maintaining it was their duty.

The moment they actually saw the chariot, they finally understood why Drakil had forbidden them from wearing cloaks. Just imagine, when the single wheel in the center of the chariot suddenly spun, the wide cloaks would most likely be caught in it, and then…

“But not now, the maintenance is in the morning,” Draghi added, his tone casual yet carrying the cold, hard rhythm typical of military life.

"Then let's..."

“Maintain the weapons! Or find a target and shoot a couple of arrows?” Dragil interrupted abruptly, his tone decisive, then added, “I’ll maintain the warhorse.”

After he finished speaking, he pushed open the connecting door between the stables and the parking area. A stronger smell wafted out, a mixture of warm horse odor, the fresh scent of hay, and the smell of manure and leather grease, carrying a rustic and profound feeling.

He patted the left rump of one of the warhorses with practiced ease, and the horse seemed like an experienced veteran...

A loud breath escaped the horse's nostrils, and it slowly raised its left hind leg. Drakil adjusted his posture accordingly, cradling the horse's leg in his arms with steady and gentle movements. His eyes carefully scanned the hoof, checking for cracks or foreign objects embedded in it.

In the following time, he checked each of the four warhorses in the stable in the same way. Each one cooperated quietly, and even when it occasionally snorted or flicked its mane, it did not show any resistance. His method and daily contact instilled trust in the warhorses.

Just as he finished his inspection and casually put down the hoof of the last warhorse, Keira Maien appeared.

Kayla Mayne is the captain of this squad. His responsibilities include not only managing four tanks, but also coordinating four animal trainers, including himself, as well as eight soldiers and more than forty military dogs.

Unlike the old days when three beast tamers squeezed onto one chariot, with the arrival of the new era, the increase in the number of chariots, and the scarcity of beast tamers, the organization has long since changed and has had to be redistributed.

Soldiers were assigned to the left and right positions of the chariot, while the charioteer, who controlled the reins, was in charge of the chariot.

The camp's chariots were organized into two teams of two, deployed at the four cardinal directions to form a defensive perimeter. Keramain and Drakil's chariots were positioned on the west side of the camp, facing the crater, responsible for guarding the most dangerous and vulnerable area. The other two chariots were deployed to the north.

Kayla Mayne left earlier to handle matters in the north.

At this moment, when he pushed open the door and came in, his eyes first swept over the warhorse that had been inspected, then glanced at the four Asleys, and a subtle meaning appeared on his face.

"Check the weapons and equipment, go out for a walk, and begin acclimatization training!" he shouted, his voice echoing powerfully in the semi-enclosed stables and parking area.

Having said that, he strode towards the wooden crate beside the chariot. The crate had metal trim on the edges, and the latches were slightly worn from frequent opening and closing, clearly indicating that it was a frequently used item. Inside the crate were his and Drakil's armor.

As the lid was lifted, the cold, metallic sheen reflected a blinding light. The armor exuded the scent of battle—heavy, cold, yet reassuringly reliable. He bent down to retrieve it, and Drakil naturally moved closer to assist him.

The skirt armor, leg armor, and arm armor were fitted one by one, the chains clanging and the metal buckles striking each other with a dull, crisp sound. As comrades who had fought side by side, their movements were practiced and efficient, without a word exchanged; their habits and rhythms were intimately familiar to each other.

After putting on all the armor, Drakil walked to another chest. This chest was noticeably narrower than the armor chest, but longer. When he opened it, two uniquely shaped harpoons lay quietly inside. Their long wooden handles and sharp spearheads gleamed coldly, and the weapons still bore faint traces of grease and battle wear.

He carefully took out the harpoons, running his fingers over the cold, hard blades, and then hung them on the hooks of the chariot shafts. The weapons and the chariot were one, symbolizing a readiness to kill at any moment.

Once everything is ready, it's time to take control.

Two Duruci and four Asleys moved simultaneously, their roles clearly defined: lifting, pushing, fastening, and securing. Though not entirely skilled, their movements were orderly. The yoke was securely fastened, and the warhorse, sensing the change in weight, snorted slightly, appearing eager to ride.

When Keira Mayne and Dragil walked side by side to the stables and pushed open the barricade, the four Asleys were already in position.

The chariot that Keramain was assigned to was carried by Lyndil and Serarian, with the former on the left and the latter on the right; while the chariot that Drakil was assigned to was carried by Philendil and Irisla, with the former on the left and the latter on the right.

The moment they took their positions, they instinctively gripped their weapons, adjusting their balance as the tank swayed slightly, as if this was the first time they truly felt the change in their status.

With the two tamers in position and the warhorses straining, the two chariots slowly began to move. The heavy wheels rolled over the ground, producing a deep, rumbling sound.

But the chariot did not immediately leave the camp. Instead, it turned to the other side and arrived at the dog kennel. As the fence opened, a wild aura rushed out. Twenty-four hunting dogs stirred simultaneously, their orange eyes gleaming in the shadows, their deep growls rising and falling.

When the tanks and hounds reunited, a small, uniquely configured, and incredibly powerful combat group was fully revealed. The cold, hard tanks, the steel-like warriors, and the wolf-like hounds combined to exude an oppressive sense of power.

The western drawbridge slowly lowered, the wooden planks creaking against the chains. Two armored vehicles crossed first, followed closely by hunting dogs, a surging tide of activity. Almost simultaneously, on the north side of the camp, another battle group, with an identical formation, crossed the northern drawbridge.

The atmosphere instantly became solemn and chilling; it was the pulse of the army beating, the rhythm of impending battle brewing. (End of Chapter)