Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Nagarond, 2:30 p.m.

The unchanging lead-gray color shrouded the sky of Naggarond for thousands of years. The thick clouds were like an oppressive curtain, blocking the sun's rays from above and immersing the entire dock in a dim shadow.

On the Sea of ​​Evil and Resentment, there was an endless stream of ships, and it was extremely busy. The ships carrying soldiers approached the dock like roaring beasts, and every docking was accompanied by busy and orderly cruelty.

The soldiers on the deck moved quickly and precisely. They were dressed in black armor, their cloaks and robes fluttering in the cold wind, and the metal of the armor radiated a cold luster in the dim light. Their boots stepped on the wooden boards of the dock, and the neat footsteps sounded like approaching war drums, pushing the tense atmosphere to the extreme, as if every step was announcing something for the upcoming killing.

There were no idle bags or messy makeshift tents on the dock, only flags fluttering in the wind and rustling on tall poles. Each flag symbolized the arrival of a different family and unit, and they demonstrated strength and loyalty in the cold sea breeze.

This may also be the last echo of the old times...

There was an indescribable sense of oppression in the air, and everything around seemed silent and depressing. Even the sound of waves hitting the hull was swallowed up by this solemn atmosphere. The breath of war quietly spread in every corner of the dock. These soldiers who were destined to go to the battlefield seemed to have been swallowed up by darkness and cruelty, becoming the symbol of cold-bloodedness in the Duruchi army.

The soldiers behind the formation did not stop for a moment, their eyes were cold and filled with a chilling determination. They did not talk, nor did they look back, but walked steadily and firmly, like an iron stream, towards the east of the military camp.

To the north of the dock and northeast of the military camp, a huge black ark slowly approached the shore like a giant beast emerging from the abyss. The hull of the ark was as black as ink, covered with ferocious edges and carvings, as if emitting a cold and cold atmosphere that kept strangers away. Traces of past battles could be seen faintly on the surface of the hull, which were the marks of glory and terror carved by it in countless killings and conquests.

On the deck, fully armed soldiers stood still like statues, holding the iconic weapons of Druch, Messer knives, spears, halberds, crossbows. Each weapon was polished to a shine, as if they were waiting for the upcoming battle.

These soldiers were drawn and pieced together from various arks. They were the cream of the crop carefully picked from the combat forces on the surface of the Duruchi Sea. They could be hailed as the elite and coldest-blooded warriors. Some of them even wore silver octagonal medals of the Chapeuto Wine Festival on their breastplates.

The Ark docked without any unnecessary pauses. The whole process was swift and efficient. When the hull was firmly embedded in the gloomy land of Naggaroth, the gangplank was immediately lowered from the side of the ship with a low rumble.

After resisting the huge impact, the soldiers closest to the springboard were the first to step onto it, lined up neatly, and their steps were as steady as a stream of iron. With each step, the killing intent spread like a tide, oppressing the air around them. Their eyes were cold and resolute, as if all their emotions were buried deep under their cold-blooded shells. The existence of each person was like a sharp blade about to be unsheathed, bringing a suffocating sense of oppression.

As teams of soldiers walked down the gangplank in an orderly manner, the entire army quickly gathered and lined up on the beach. They did not make any unnecessary movements, no one talked, no one hesitated, there was only uniform action and an aura of murderous intent that could not be ignored.

In the distant military camp, the Duruchi soldiers who were watching could not help but look sideways. They were not the kind of people who were easily intimidated, as some of them were also experienced warriors. But at this moment, they also felt the overwhelming pressure emanating from these Ark soldiers.

In the distance, the outline of the Iron Mountains loomed under the leaden sky, like a huge barrier, isolating this cold land from the more distant world. The shadow of the mountains shrouded the military camp, which was a busy scene. The smoke from the cooking stoves rose, mixed with the smell of leather, sweat and steel, rendering this plain more real.

In the south and west, the loyalist army had completed its final preparations more than an hour ago. The soldiers in the tents moved quickly and lined up neatly, nervously arranging their equipment under the orders of the officers. The buckles of the armor made a crisp metallic collision sound, like the prelude to a battle.

Some soldiers kept unloading supplies from the carriages and stacking them neatly; some soldiers kept opening boxes to take out equipment and arrows; other soldiers concentrated on adjusting the crossbows to ensure that every shot was accurate.

"Line up!"

The centurion's voice was like a whip crack, exploding in the soldiers' ears, with an irresistible majesty. His eyes were as sharp as a hawk, scanning every face of his men to make sure they were ready to go.

The loyal soldiers had serious expressions and determined eyes. They knew that the upcoming battle was a battle of no return, a decisive moment between life and death.

Then, the soldiers who were ready to go marched north and east, heading to the center of the huge camp. Then, they saw Morathi flying over their heads, and then, they saw the thrilling pursuit.

The disloyal camps in the center and north appeared to be in chaos, or as normal as usual, in stark contrast to the purge of the loyalists in the south and west.

After witnessing the horrific scene, some of the more core soldiers received orders, put on armor, held weapons, and reluctantly lined up at the designated positions, but they looked confused and at a loss, as they did not know what fate they would face next.

Not to mention the soldiers, even some officers were at a loss, they didn't know what to do, why they were armed. Preparing to board the Black Ark and head to Ulthuan? But it didn't look like that.

Other soldiers were still eating their lunch carelessly, squatting or sitting, chewing the hard-to-swallow dry food, their movements were slow and mechanical, and occasionally discussing what they had just seen. Some people gathered in twos and threes, talking in low voices, looking around vigilantly, afraid of being noticed by the officers. Armor and weapons were scattered around the tents in a mess, and some soldiers tried to clean their equipment, but their movements seemed slow and weak.

"What just happened?"

"what is going on?"

"What exactly are we going to do?"

An underage soldier broke the silence. His voice was low and rapid, full of fear and uneasiness. His hand was tightly grasping the handle of the Messer knife, but his palm was already soaked with cold sweat, and his hand was trembling slightly, making him look harmless.

"Don't ask, it's useless to ask, no one will tell us. We have no choice, we have to do it when we receive the order." An old soldier sitting on the ground next to him responded in a hoarse voice, with fatigue and despair in his tone.

The soldiers around them listened to these words and their expressions became even more gloomy. Some of them lowered their heads and stared at the soil under their feet in silence, as if it was a bottomless abyss that sucked away their hope. More people looked at the military camp in the distance blankly, as if they were looking for some kind of answer, or waiting for the judgment of fate.

The morale of the soldiers in the camp fluctuated like a silent plague, spreading from one person to ten, and from ten to a hundred. The officers pacing between the tents tried to suppress the atmosphere, but their scolding and threats sounded weak and empty. Some low-ranking officers even secretly wiped the sweat from their foreheads, with fear in their eyes that was difficult to conceal.

Not far away, the huge flag of the disloyal family fluttered in the cold wind, but at this moment it looked more like the shadow of death, weighing on the hearts of every rebel soldier.

There were no clear orders, no clear goals, only oppressive waiting and fear of an uncertain future. This military camp was like a sand castle about to collapse, waiting for the final blow to shatter everything.

However, within the chaotic camp of the disloyal faction, there was a completely different order hidden.

Under the command of the officers, the loyalist soldiers entered the designated positions. Their movements were swift and efficient, and every step was full of strict discipline, which formed a sharp contrast with the bewildered rebels around them. They had finished lunch long ago, and no one wasted a minute. Every piece of armor was fastened tightly, and every weapon was carefully checked to ensure that there would be no mistakes in the possible battle. Spears and shields were tightly held in their hands, and the crossbows were loaded. Everything was proceeding in an orderly manner.

"Listen carefully! Maintain formation, defend the camp, and resist any attack that attempts to break through our defense line!" A centurion gave the order in a low but powerful voice. There was unquestionable majesty in his tone, and every word hit the captains' nerves like a hammer.

Not far from the centurion, the captains' faces were filled with shock and confusion. They didn't know why there was such an order, nor did they understand who would attack them. There was a faint doubt in their eyes, but no one spoke.

When the centurion's sharp eyes swept over them, the sense of oppression like a substance made them straighten their backs and stand straight and stiff. They did not choose to question, but used body language to show their attitude: no matter how deep the doubts were, they would resolutely execute the orders.

For a moment, the atmosphere became particularly solemn, and the noise in the camp seemed to be suppressed at this moment. The captains buried their uneasiness deep in their hearts, waiting for the order to act and implementing it with the most stringent execution.

On the other side, a centurion was directing the soldiers to build a simple defensive position. The soldiers used the supplies they could find in the camp to quickly build a temporary barrier to enhance their ability to resist the rebels' attack. Although the soldiers did not know why they did this, they acted skillfully, and no one complained or delayed.

"Do you think they will attack first?"

The atmosphere in the loyalist camp was calm and tense. The soldiers had sharp eyes and held their weapons tightly, as if ready to face the coming storm at any time. A soldier took advantage of the captain's inattention and whispered to his companion.

"Maybe, maybe not?" The companion responded in a low voice, with deep confusion in his tone. He didn't know what was going on and why he did this.

Most of these loyalist troops came from Karonde Kal, and were elite troops directly controlled by the Night Wardens and Valarhar. At this moment, they were surrounded by the disloyalist camps, like isolated islands, holding out in the vast ocean where a storm was about to hit.

Their mission was not to initiate an attack, but to hold the camp firmly. Before the loyalist troops from the south and west arrived, they had to defend the camp and resist possible attacks. When the loyalist troops arrived, they would attack the rebels together with them.

Read more latest popular novels at 6.9*shuba!

In the past, Fergal was full of yearning and expectation for war, eager to make achievements on the battlefield, climb up step by step, and become a dread lord. But now, let alone a little, he has nothing. After experiencing the heavy blow of reality, his illusion was shattered.

His eyes were filled with confusion and fear. He was not excited or fanatical at all. His frail body was covered in a tattered armor that did not fit him well. The edges of the armor were rusted and the joints made creaking sounds. This was the result of his mother's best efforts to repair it. In his hand, he held an equally tattered spear with many gaps on the tip, as if it would break at any time.

He was only fourteen years old, two years away from adulthood in Duruchi society, but that didn't stop him from being drafted into the army and becoming a Dread Spearman without even a shield.

He still clearly remembers that day, he and his mother were enjoying a simple lunch at home. His mother, a weaver with a haggard face but a determined look, was mending his khatan while muttering about the daily necessities of life. Due to the temptation of food, he could only listen patiently, but soon this precious peace was broken.

Suddenly, soldiers burst in and declared without mercy that they must join the Dread Lord's army. He was roughly pulled to his feet, and his mother was forced to follow.

Before Fergal understood the meaning of all this, he and his mother had been drafted into the army of the Lord of Terror. From that day on, he and his mother were forced to accept simple and crude training, and the equipment they were issued was not even as durable as the items picked out from the scrap metal pile. Until now, he didn't even know who the Lord of Terror was who controlled the fate of him and his mother, let alone why he had to stand here.

At this moment, he stood in the chaotic camp, the whispers and uneasy murmurs of the soldiers around him echoing in his ears. His mother stood beside him, a woman who tried to remain calm even in difficult situations, but he could feel the worry in his mother's heart spreading.

"Child, no matter what happens, you must stand behind me, do you hear me?" Fergal's mother took advantage of the captain's distraction and whispered to the child carefully. Her voice was gentle, but it was heavy and sad.

Fergal looked up at his mother. At that moment, he seemed to see the worry written on her face behind her helmet. It was a deep worry of losing her only loved one. He could feel his mother's fear, which made his already tense heart even more painful. He didn't say much, but nodded vigorously.

In this chaotic and disorderly disloyal camp, Fergal and his mother were just two small figures in the vast sea of ​​people. Caught in the power struggle, they didn't even have the opportunity to understand the meaning of all this. The soldiers around them were like scattered chess pieces. No one knew what would happen next, and no one knew who would be swept away from this land by the coming storm.

Darkus squatted on the dragon head of Springwin, the black and red dragon scales under his feet shone with a slight metallic luster, and the residual heat of the dragon's breath gushed out of his nostrils from time to time, bringing a hot surge. The wind whistled past him, bringing with it the smell of cold and dampness, and he quietly smoked the pipe in his hand.

As the last wisp of tobacco turned into gray smoke and drifted in the wind, he patted his pipe to clean up the remaining ashes, then took out an exquisite pocket watch from his pocket. The hands of the pocket watch pointed to 2:45, and there were still 15 minutes before the loyalists launched the general attack.

He raised his head, took a deep breath, and looked into the distance.

In the distance, the endless military camps looked like a dark ocean, with military flags standing in rows, flickering like ghosts under the gray sky.

In the distance, the black arks that had just rushed onto the land were like moving fortresses. The queues of soldiers on the decks were rushing towards the land like a steel torrent, and there were more black arks slowly approaching the periphery of the dock, trying to shorten the round-trip distance of the ships.

The ships sailing on the Sea of ​​Malice were so dense that they looked like a flock of crows covering the sky. The high-raised black oblique sails were painted with the emblems of Matheran and various families, as if silently announcing that all the power of Duruqi had gathered here.

Farther away was the towering Naggarond, its outline looking particularly ferocious in the dim light. The city wall was like a pitch-black blade, piercing the leaden sky, and the most eye-catching thing in the city was the Black Tower of Malekith, a symbol of the authority of the Witch King. It towered into the clouds, like a black spear piercing the sky, exuding a cold and ruthless sense of oppression.

Dacus's eyes wandered between these scenes, and finally, he sighed softly. Then a smile appeared on the corner of his mouth, which was full of confidence and mixed with a hint of mockery about the impermanence of the world.

"It's almost there, it's almost there, just like..."

He murmured, his voice low and firm, and the wind carried his words around the dragon head of Splinterwin.

Looking down from his perspective, the entire land seemed to be under his control. The chessboard of the battle had been laid out, and he was the chess player holding the chess pieces.

He stood up suddenly, looking down at the land, his eyes as sharp as an eagle, and the smile on the corners of his mouth deepened.

"Your old man Dake...is here to rescue you!"

His voice cut through the howling of the wind, carrying a force that could not be ignored, resounding through the sky above the dragon head. (End of this chapter)