Night fell over Blackwood Fortress like a burial shroud.
The chaos of the day—the shouting, the blood, the violence—had vanished as if swallowed whole. Even the storm seemed quieter now, its howling unable to drown out the faint, metallic scent lingering in the air.
Blood.
The fires still burned, their light flickering across faces—but what they revealed was no longer hope.
Only silence.
And fear.
No one spoke above a whisper. Even the children had stopped crying, as if instinct warned them that sound itself was dangerous. People huddled in their shelters, or crouched in dark corners, ears straining for any disturbance.
All attention drifted, again and again, toward one place.
The stone house.
Colin's residence.
It was the only place still awake.
The only place still moving.
Outside it, in the snow, lay seventeen wild boars.
And two black bears.
Their bodies were neatly drained of blood, lined in order like offerings. Steam rose faintly from their freshly opened carcasses, curling into the cold air.
Linna and the elders worked in silence.
Efficient.
Precise.
Blades slid through hide and flesh. Organs were removed. Meat was carved into thick, clean cuts and stacked on prepared hides, glistening red in the firelight.
It was a sight that should have driven a starving camp into frenzy.
But no one moved.
No one dared.
They watched.
From the edges.
Eyes filled with hunger.
And fear.
They were waiting.
Waiting for one man to decide who would eat—
And who would not.
The door opened.
Colin stepped out.
He wore no heavy furs—only a close-fitting outfit, thin against the biting cold. The storm seemed unable to touch him.
The moment he appeared, every prying gaze vanished.
The camp fell into an even deeper silence.
He walked past them all.
Unhurried.
Unbothered.
Straight to the pile of meat.
His eyes swept over the hunters—Goff, Haske, and the warriors behind them. Blood still stained their bodies, fresh from the hunt… and from something else.
"Today," Colin said,
"all hunters and fighters will eat their fill."
His voice was calm.
But it carried.
Every corner of the camp heard it.
"Roast the best cuts. Now."
"You need your strength."
"Because tomorrow…"
His gaze hardened.
"You come with me again."
Silence broke.
Not with noise—
But with breath.
Haske froze.
For a moment, he couldn't believe it.
This wasn't scraps.
This wasn't rationing.
This was reward.
Recognition.
Trust.
"Chief…!"
He dropped to one knee, voice trembling.
"Thank you!"
Behind him, the warriors followed.
A unified motion.
A unified voice.
Gratitude.
Fierce.
Real.
In the shadows, others watched.
Jealousy flickered.
Resentment simmered.
But stronger than both—
Understanding.
Cold. Clear.
This was the new order.
Those who fought—
Ate.
Colin said nothing more.
He turned.
And walked back inside.
Leaving behind the feast.
And the message.
Above, in the watchtower, he shut the door.
Silence returned.
He sat.
Closed his eyes.
And sank into the system only he could see.
[Kill Points: 157.5]
The numbers hovered before him.
What once felt like wealth now felt… insufficient.
Too little.
Far too little.
Three hundred mouths.
A ticking clock.
A noose tightening day by day.
Fear could control people.
For a while.
But hunger?
Hunger destroyed everything.
Food.
Only food could break this deadlock.
And food required strength.
Not just numbers.
Not just strategy.
But power.
Personal power.
Colin exhaled slowly.
"No more saving."
"Strength. Agility. Constitution—plus ten."
"Spirit—plus one."
[Confirm consumption of 155 Kill Points?]
"Confirm."
Pain exploded.
It surged from his heart like molten iron, flooding his body in an instant.
His muscles tore—rebuilt—tore again.
His bones groaned, compressed, reforged under invisible force.
Blood burned through his veins, searing, relentless.
He clenched his teeth.
Endured.
And then—
It stopped.
Power remained.
He stood.
Slowly.
His joints cracked like distant thunder. Strength pulsed through him—dense, controlled, overwhelming.
For a moment—
He felt unstoppable.
[Colin][Strength: 40][Agility: 29][Constitution: 29][Spirit: 10]
The world sharpened.
He could hear breathing below.
Smell meat roasting.
See movement in the distant snow.
Control.
But it wasn't enough.
Colin stepped to the window.
Opened it slightly.
Looked down.
At the feasting warriors.
At the silent camp.
"Not enough…"
Dawn came.
And everything had changed.
The camp moved.
Not with chaos—
But with force.
The newcomers were driven into the open, whether willing or not. Linna's voice rang sharp through the cold, backed by guards and snapping whips.
Order.
Enforced.
At the gate, a team gathered.
Not ordinary.
Not uniform.
"Haske. Goff. Anna."
"Here!"
They stepped forward.
Behind them—thirty werewolves.
Rested.
Fed.
Ready.
"Fenrir."
A fox-man stepped out—thin, sharp-featured, nose twitching in the cold.
Then—
"Priest Su'er. I need one hundred fox hunters. Fifty deer runners."
Hesitation.
Then understanding.
Selections were made.
"We only hunt small game…" one fox-man said nervously.
"I know," Colin replied.
"But I need traps."
"Complex ones."
"Layered."
Fear shifted.
Into purpose.
Then—
Colin turned.
To the boar-men.
The ones who had challenged him.
"Come here."
They froze.
Faces pale.
Expecting punishment.
Instead—
"You're strong," Colin said.
"You'll carry the prey."
A pause.
"If the hunt is good—"
"You eat like the warriors."
Hope ignited.
Explosive.
They bowed.
Hard.
Desperate.
The team was formed.
A mixture of races.
Of strengths.
Of purposes.
Not just a hunting party.
A system.
"Move!"
They marched.
Into the storm.
The journey was brutal.
Snow to the knees.
Wind like blades.
Every step a battle.
But something had changed.
The werewolves led.
Fox-men tracked.
Deer-men scouted.
Boar-men supported.
A unit.
And then—
They saw it.
A valley.
Green.
Alive.
Untouched by snow.
A river cut through it, steaming faintly in the cold.
Vegetation thrived.
Life… thrived.
Hope surged.
Then—
Tracks.
Deer.
A herd.
Fresh.
Large.
Excitement flared.
Then—
Claw marks.
Wolf pack.
And beyond that—
Something bigger.
A single print.
Massive.
Deep.
"Frostclaw Bear…"
Silence fell.
Opportunity.
And death.
Together.
All eyes turned to Colin.
He crouched.
Touched the print.
No fear.
Only focus.
A hunter's gaze.
"I was just wondering…"
he thought,
"…where to get more kill points."