The North. Land of Always Winter. The Haunted Forest.
"Samwell Tarly! This... is this your 'divine revelation'? Are you sure these things weren't sent to drag us straight into the Seven Hells?"
Eddison Tollett's mouth was a spring that never ran dry. No matter the location, no matter the peril, he always had a grievance to air or a pessimistic observation to share.
GRRRRR...
A pack of forest wolves—common predators of the far north, roughly the size of large hunting hounds—had emerged from the treeline. They circled the scouting party, their breath misting in the air as they growled with a bloodthirsty intent. There were at least twenty of them, eyes fixed on the horses' jugulars.
"They are here to help us," Jon replied, his tone dismissive of Edd's panic.
Under the bewildered gazes of the Night's Watchmen, Jon reached out a hand toward the circling pack. To his companions, it looked like a simple gesture; in reality, Jon was accessing the Magic Stone Module.
Magic Stones were distinct from Dragonstones. In the logic of Jon's past life, these were artifacts used to seal a Primordial Demon King—a boss capable of summoning and mutating an endless army of monsters. Jon now held the early-stage permissions for this power, allowing him to convert Soul Energy into Blood Magic at a 2:1 ratio.
From the twisted experiments in Visenya Targaryen's hidden vault, Jon had already harvested nearly 20,000 units of Blood Magic. He hadn't had the chance to test it until now.
The system's current level allowed him to infect corpses or wolves, turning them into either zombies or Mo Sha Hounds. Finding the former too grotesque for his current company, he chose the latter. Mo Sha Hounds were apex hunters, possessed of lightning-fast reflexes and a singular, relentless drive to crush the throats of their prey.
From Jon's outstretched palm, tendrils of crimson energy snaked out like seeking serpents.
AWOOO—!
The wolves suddenly stiffened, let out a choked whimper, and collapsed.
POP. SQUELCH.
In a series of wet, explosive bursts, ten of the wolves failed to contain the raw energy and disintegrated into a mist of red gore. The remaining ten, however, stood back up. Their fur had turned a dark, ashen brown, and a mane of blood-red bristles erupted along their spines. In the monochromatic world of ice and snow, they glowed like embers of a dying fire.
"What... what are those?" Grenn stammered, swallowing hard. "Is this... some ancient sorcery?"
"Soldiers sent by the Gods," Jon explained, his voice flat. "They are Mo Sha Hounds. They will find our missing brothers."
Jon pulled out a bundle of clothing—garments belonging to the missing rangers. The hounds' sense of smell, already acute, had been amplified to a supernatural degree by the blood magic. They sniffed the cloth and began to wag their tails with a predatory excitement.
"Find the owners of these clothes," Jon commanded. "Stay sharp. If you find them, do not attack immediately. Wait for us."
The largest of the hounds let out a low, subservient whine and shot into the forest like a streak of dark light. The others fanned out, forming a protective perimeter around the riders. The horses neighed in terror, sensing the unnatural aura of the beasts; it took all of Edd and Pyp's strength to keep them from bolting.
"Move out," Jon said, swinging back into his saddle. "The little ones will lead us."
The Night's Watchmen followed, their perception of Samwell Tarly—and the world—permanently altered. This wasn't just training or muscle; this was a miracle, or a nightmare, manifesting in the snow.
They pushed through the Haunted Forest for miles. The horses, sturdy Northern breeds, struggled through the drifts, but the Mo Sha Hounds moved as if the snow didn't exist.
GRRRRR...
A low, warning growl erupted from a thicket to Jon's front-left.
"Stay alert!" Jon barked. Through his mental link with the hounds, he felt their hackles rise.
CRACK. SHRRR.
The sound of breaking branches and tearing thorns echoed from the brush. A group of dark shapes burst from the black-briars, their movements jerky and unnatural. The thorns tore away strips of rotted clothing and putrid flesh, but the figures didn't flinch.
NEIGH!
The horses reared, sensing the stench of the grave.
The creatures that emerged were no longer men. Their flesh was grey and sloughing, hanging in wet ribbons. Black, congealed blood and yellow pus seeped from their wounds, dripping onto the pristine snow. They were dead, yet they moved.
But it was their eyes that froze the soul—shimmering pinpoints of icy blue light that burned in their sockets like ghost-fire. It was a color that promised only the cold of the void. Some wore the black cloaks of the Watch; others, the rough furs of wildlings. They moved with a steady, tireless trot, far faster than the lumbering zombies of common myth.
"S-Sam... what are they?" Edd's teeth were chattering so hard he could barely speak.
Jon didn't answer with words. He drew Longclaw. The Valyrian steel sang as it left its scabbard, the ripples in the blade catching the dim forest light.
He slid from his saddle and began to walk toward the dead.
"I don't care what they are," Jon said, his voice echoing with a cold resolve. "I only know they're in our way. So I'm going to butcher them."
AWOOOO!
The Mo Sha Hounds struck first, moving in groups of three to harass a single Wight. They circled and nipped, testing the undead for weaknesses.
SHING. CRACK.
Jon swung the greatsword with both hands, the massive blade feeling as light as a willow branch in his magically enhanced grip. With a single, fluid arc, he decapitated the lead Wight. The head spun into the snow, its blue eyes still flickering.
Seeing the monster fall, the fear in Grenn and the others began to transmute into a desperate, fighting rage. They drew their steel and followed their leader into the fray.
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