A stir went through the crowd. Hamur caught the renewed anger in some soldiers' eyes.
"What's more hateful!" Hamur continued to rally morale in his way, "Scouts reported a lingering, strange aura on the battlefield, not belonging to any known loa!"
"Faint, but definitely present! It was that power that blinded our eyes and confused our warriors' judgment!"
The priests standing behind him looked solemn but dared not show any expression.
The truth was, they had tried everything and found no traces of spellcasting or residual unfamiliar energy.
But Bazlow's behavioral deviation itself was the biggest anomaly.
So Hamur deliberately avoided using the term "evil god," opting instead for vague but clearly directional phrases like "not belonging to any known loa" and "strange aura."
"Bazlow, our brother, Frost Howl's 'Trampler'!" Hamur's voice carried a hint of pathos, which then transformed into overwhelming killing intent, "He wasn't defeated by the enemy; he was ambushed, desecrated!"
"And this blood debt must be repaid with blood! With all of Ital'ruk, with the evil god they worship, to honor our fallen warriors!"
He suddenly drew the single-handed axe from his waist; the axe blade reflected a cold glint in the pale midday sun.
"Cowards, those who waver the army's morale, are akin to traitors!" Hamur's gaze swept coldly over the crowd.
"And traitors, die!"
After seeing that everyone was intimidated, Hamur continued, "Frost Howl warriors have only heroic souls who died in battle, not cowards scared out of their wits!"
"Bazlow's blood will not be shed in vain! Avenge our brother with the heads and hearts of the enemy!"
"Crush Ital'ruk! Let Gray Tooth Valley become the graveyard for that evil god's faith!"
"Roar--!" After a brief silence, the anger suppressed by fear and the death of comrades, and the bloodlust ignited by the leader's iron fist and vow of revenge, finally erupted.
The soldiers pounded their chests, letting out beast-like roars.
Morale was forcibly consolidated amidst the bloody intimidation and the fervor of revenge.
Hamur sheathed his axe, his face still cold.
He turned and quietly gave orders to his trusted adjutant beside him, his voice only audible to the two of them.
"Send word, have those thousand men in the rear accelerate their march, they must reach the designated position before..."
"But tell them, without my wolf smoke signal, they are absolutely forbidden to expose themselves, let alone participate in battle! Disobey, and be executed!"
A flicker of imperceptible doubt flashed in the sycophantic adjutant's eyes.
Those thousand men were the elite of Matos's direct lineage, while the current five hundred detached troops were sent by Chief Mor'Lagon.
Now was precisely the time to break the stalemate with fresh forces and crush Ital'ruk in one fell swoop, so why hide them?
But he dared not ask further and immediately left to carry out the order.
Hamur watched the adjutant's retreating back, then looked at the silent Gray Tooth Valley pass in the distance.
Bazlow's death was a huge loss, but not irreparable.
Those thousand men were his true trump card and backup, not to be revealed easily until the most crucial moment.
Before the expedition, Matos had repeatedly warned him not to suffer heavy losses with these thousand troops.
If it weren't necessary, Hamur truly didn't want to use them.
But he didn't expect things to progress to this point...
"We can only take it one step at a time."
Almost simultaneously with Hamur's low murmur, on the other side of Gray Tooth Valley, in the dimly lit animal skin tent of the command post, Gulen uttered similar words to his colleagues at the same moment.
"...If that happens, then we can only take it one step at a time."
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