Just being a dark elf in Warhammer

Nagarond, 2:30 p.m.

The unchanging lead-gray color shrouded the sky of Nagarond for thousands of years. The heavy clouds were like a layer of oppressive curtain, isolating the sun's brilliance from above, immersing the entire dock in a dim shadow.

On the sea of ​​​​resentment, ships were constantly flowing and extremely busy. The ships carrying soldiers roared like giant beasts and approached the dock. Every time they docked, they were accompanied by busy and orderly coldness.

The soldiers on the deck moved quickly and accurately. They were wearing black armor, their cloaks and robes fluttered in the cold wind, and the metal of the armor exuded 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 temporary tents on the dock, only flags fluttering in the wind on high poles. Each flag symbolized the arrival of different families and troops, and they showed 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 coldness, becoming a symbol of cold-bloodedness in the Duruchi army.

The soldiers behind the line did not stop at all. They had cold eyes and a chilling determination. They did not talk or look back. Their steps were steady and firm, and they marched towards the east of the barracks like an iron stream.

To the north of the dock, northeast of the barracks, 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 hideous edges and carvings, as if exuding a cold and cold atmosphere that no one could approach. Traces of old battles could be faintly seen on the surface of the hull, which were the marks of glory and terror carved in countless killings and conquests.

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

These soldiers were drawn and pieced together from various arks. They were the essence carefully selected from the combat forces on the surface of Duruchi. They could be regarded as elite and cold-blooded warriors. Some of them even wore silver octagonal medals of the Chapeiuto 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 cold land of Naggaroth, the gangplank was immediately lowered from the side of the ship, making a low rumble.

After resisting the huge impact, the soldiers closest to the springboard took the lead and lined up neatly, with steady steps like iron streams. With each step, the killing intent spread like a tide, oppressing the surrounding air. Their eyes were cold and resolute, as if all emotions were buried deep under the cold-blooded shell. The existence of each person was like a sharp blade about to be unsheathed, with a suffocating sense of oppression.

As teams of soldiers walked down the springboard in an orderly manner, the entire army quickly gathered and lined up on the beach. They did not have any extra movements, no one talked, no one hesitated, only uniform actions and the aura of killing that could not be ignored.

In the distant military camp, the watching Duruchi soldiers could not help but look sideways. They were not people who were easily intimidated, because 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 Mountain Range was looming under the lead-gray sky, like a huge barrier, separating this cold land from the more distant world. The shadow of the mountains covered the military camp, which was busy with smoke rising from the cooking stoves, mixed with the smell of leather, sweat and steel, rendering the plain more real.

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

Some soldiers kept unloading the supplies from the carriages and stacking them neatly; some soldiers kept opening boxes to receive equipment and arrows; others were concentrating on adjusting the crossbows to ensure that every shot was accurate.

"Line up!"

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

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

Then, the soldiers who were ready to go marched north and east, and gathered in 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 seemed to be in chaos, or as normal as usual, in sharp contrast to the purge of the loyalists in the south and west.

After witnessing the horrific scene, some of the core soldiers received orders, put on armor, held weapons, and lined up in the designated positions, but they looked at a loss. They didn't 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 or why they were armed. Ready to board the Black Ark and go to Ulthuan? But it didn't look like it.

Other soldiers were still eating lunch carelessly. They squatted or sat, chewing on the hard-to-swallow dry food, their movements were slow and mechanical, and occasionally they discussed the scene they had just seen. Some people gathered in twos and threes, talking in low voices, looking around vigilantly, for fear of being noticed by the officers. Armor and weapons were scattered around the tents, and some soldiers tried to clean their equipment, but their movements seemed slow and weak.

"What happened just now?"

"What's going on?"

"What are we going to do?"

A soldier who was not yet an adult broke the silence, his voice was low and rapid, and his tone was full of panic and anxiety. His hand tightly grasped the handle of the Messer knife, but his palm was already soaked with cold sweat, and his hand trembled slightly, making it look non-threatening.

"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 whispered in a hoarse voice, with fatigue and despair in his tone.

The soldiers around listened to these words, and their expressions became even gloomier. Some people 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 away, looking blankly at the military camp in the distance, as if they were looking for some answers, or waiting for the judgment of fate.

The morale of the army in the camp fluctuated like a silent plague, spreading from one 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 undisguised fear in their eyes.

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 repressed waiting, and fear of an uncertain future. This military camp was like a sand castle about to collapse, waiting for the final blow to smash everything.

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

Under the command of the officers, the loyal soldiers entered the designated positions. Their movements were quick and capable, 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, every weapon was carefully checked to ensure that there would be no mistakes in the battle that might happen next. Spears and shields were tightly held in their hands, crossbows were loaded, and everything was going on in an orderly manner.

"Listen! Keep the 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 resounding tone, with unquestionable majesty in his tone, and every word hit the captains' nerves like a heavy hammer.

Not far from the centurion, the captains' faces were full of shock and confusion. They didn't know why there was such an order, nor did they understand who would attack them. Faint doubts flashed 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 deeply, waiting for the order to act and implementing it in the most strict manner.

On the other side, a centurion was directing the soldiers to build a simple defensive position. The soldiers used the materials they could find in the camp to quickly build a temporary barrier to enhance their ability to resist the attack of the rebels. Although the soldiers didn't know why they did this, they were skilled, no one complained, and no one 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 they were ready to welcome the 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 happened and why he did this.

Most of these loyalist troops came from Karonde Karl, and they were elite troops directly controlled by the Night Warden and Valahar. At this moment, they were surrounded by the disloyal army camp, like isolated islands, holding out in the vast ocean where a storm was about to hit.

Their mission was not to take the initiative to attack, but to hold the camp firmly. Before the loyal army from the south and west arrived, they had to defend the camp and resist possible attacks. When the loyal army arrived, they would attack the rebels together with them.

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, nothing, after experiencing the heavy punch of reality, his illusion was shattered.

His eyes were full of confusion and fear. He was not excited at all, let alone fanatical. His thin body was covered in a shabby armor that did not match him. The edges of the armor were rusted, and the joints made a creaking sound. This was the result of his mother's best efforts to repair it. He held an equally shabby spear in his hand, with a lot of gaps on the spear head, as if it would break at any time.

He was only fourteen years old, and he was still two years away from adulthood in the Duruchi society, but this did not prevent him from being conscripted into the army and becoming a dread spearman without even a shield.

He still clearly remembered that day, he and his mother were enjoying a simple lunch at home. His mother, a weaver with a haggard face but a firm gaze, was mending Kaitan for him while muttering about firewood, rice, oil and salt. Due to the temptation of food, he could only listen patiently, but soon this precious peace was broken.

Suddenly, soldiers rushed in and announced mercilessly that they had to join the army of the Lord of Terror. He was pulled up roughly, and his mother was forced to follow.

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

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

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

Feigal looked up at his mother. At this moment, he seemed to see that his mother's face behind the helmet was full of worry, 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 fiercely.

In this chaotic and disordered disloyal camp, Feigal and his mother were just two small figures in the vast sea of ​​people. They were caught in the power struggle and didn't even have the opportunity to understand the meaning of all this. The soldiers around 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.

Dacus squatted on the dragon head of Splinterwin, the black and red dragon scales under his feet shone with a 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, carrying the smell of cold and dampness, and he quietly smoked the pipe in his hand.

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

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

In the distance, the endless military camps were 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 ranks of soldiers on the decks were rushing towards the land like a steel torrent, and there were more black arks outside the docks slowly approaching, trying to shorten the round-trip distance of the ships.

The ships sailing on the Sea of ​​Evil were densely packed, like a flock of crows covering the sky. The high-raised black oblique sails were painted with the emblems of Maslan and various families, as if silently announcing that all the power of Duruqi was gathered here.

Further away was the towering Nagarond, its outline looked particularly hideous in the dim light. The city wall was like a dark blade, piercing the lead-gray sky, and the most eye-catching in the city was the black tower of Malekith, which symbolized 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.

Daquus's eyes lingered between these scenes, and finally, he sighed softly. Then a smile appeared on his lips, full of confidence and a hint of teasing about the impermanence of the world.

"Soon, soon, just like..."

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

Looking down from his perspective, the 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 his lips deepened.

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

His voice cut through the hissing of the wind, with a force that could not be ignored, and resounded through the sky above the dragon head. (End of this chapter)