Dawn stood on the knife's edge between night and day—uncertain, suspended.Today, that uncertainty was wrapped in a suffocating veil of milky-white fog.
It rolled through Blackwood Forest like a silent, monstrous beast, devouring mountains, swallowing trees, and smothering every living thing in its cold, damp belly. Visibility shrank to less than ten meters. Even sound seemed to falter, dulled and swallowed by the mist, as though muffled beneath layers of wet cloth.
For an ambush, no better curtain could exist.
The goblin mine lay eerily still.
Under the fog's cover, eighty dark figures slipped forward like restless spirits, gliding into their assigned positions without a whisper. They were the full strength of Blackwood Fortress—the blade Colin had wagered everything upon.
At the vanguard, Colin crouched behind a slick stone. His gaze was steady, predatory, cutting through the fog to fix upon the distorted silhouettes of the goblin camp a hundred meters ahead.
In his hand rested a newly forged longsword.
Reworked by Berg from the noble's captured blade, it bore little resemblance to its origin. Its body shimmered with a deep, muted silver; the blade was lean and elegant, widening subtly at the base before tapering into a deadly arc. Along its spine ran a faint, blood-colored line—the byproduct of countless folds, an accidental mark born of relentless forging.
The hilt, carved from ironwood and wrapped in cured bearskin, fit perfectly in his grip. The crossguard was plain but practical, curving just enough to trap or deflect a weapon.
No ornamentation. No excess.Only purpose.
It had no name.
The night before, Berg—eyes red with exhaustion—had placed the sword in Colin's hands and said only:
"I've poured everything I know about iron into that blade. Use it… and bring me more."
Colin could feel its balance instantly—perfect, centered just ahead of the guard. Every motion, whether thrust or cut, flowed with minimal effort and maximum force. It was as if the weapon had been forged for him alone—for his body, for his instincts, for the techniques etched into his mind.
Now it waited with him in silence, eager for its first taste of blood.
A soft coo echoed faintly from the fog to the left.
Then another, answering from the right.
Goff's signal.
A thin smile touched Colin's lips.
The Forest Tracker Squadron—the fortress's sharpest dagger—had already struck.
Ten minutes earlier, Goff, Anna, and Linna led twenty of their finest through the fog like phantoms. Their steps were wrapped in soft leather, their passage soundless over moss and rot. Words were unnecessary; hand signals flowed between them in practiced silence.
Laika and the Deer-folk pushed their senses to the limit—ears turning, eyes piercing through gloom, catching every shift, every flicker.
The first sentry was easy.
A goblin dozed inside a crude wooden post, its spear leaned uselessly against the wall. Goff gestured once.
A Fox-folk scout slipped forward, swift and silent. In one motion, he clamped the goblin's mouth and slit its throat cleanly.
A brief struggle. A muted gasp.
Then stillness.
The body vanished into the fog.
One down.
Traps came next.
Pits lined with sharpened stakes. Hidden tripwires rigged to suspended logs. Narrow paths turned into death corridors.
Everything was laid with precision. No wasted movement. No sound.
Linna directed her squad with calm efficiency, identifying threats before they emerged. When two goblins whispered behind rubble, she didn't strike blindly—she signaled Anna.
An arrow flew.
It pierced one goblin's eye before the sound even reached him.
The second barely had time to react before Anna descended, blades flashing in a clean, crossing arc.
Two bodies. No alarm.
One by one, the outer defenses vanished into silence.
Until, at last, Goff's call echoed through the mist.
The stage was set.
Then came the howl.
It tore through the fog like thunder—raw, feral, unstoppable.
Colin's voice.
It carried across the valley, slamming into the hearts of every goblin still clinging to sleep.
A signal. A declaration.
War.
Colin moved.
The ground cracked beneath his feet as he launched forward, no longer a hunter but a released arrow, hurtling toward the enemy's heart.
Chaos erupted within the camp.
Shouts. Panic. Scrambling bodies.
And through it all—a single dark blur cutting straight toward them.
The first goblin never even raised its weapon.
A flash of silver.
It froze mid-charge—then split cleanly in two.
Colin didn't slow.
The second swung wildly. Colin shifted half a step—just enough.
The axe struck empty air.
His blade answered, slipping upward through the goblin's open jaw and out the back of its skull.
He moved on before the body hit the ground.
No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Strength, speed, and mastery fused into one.
He became a spear.
Behind him, the fortress surged forward—werewolves crashing through the breach, shields smashing, arrows cutting down stragglers from the mist.
The goblin line collapsed instantly.
Screams and steel filled the air. Blood soaked the earth.
Victory seemed inevitable—
Until the scream came.
Sharp. Piercing. Unnatural.
All sound faltered beneath it.
High above the battlefield, the goblin priest raised its skull staff, shrieking commands.
Moments later, goblins shattered crude jars against their own heads.
Dark liquid poured down their faces.
They drank.
Then they changed.
Muscles swelled. Eyes burned red. Reason vanished.
Berserkers.
They fought through fatal wounds, ignoring pain, tearing into the fortress's formation with claw and tooth.
Momentum shattered.
Order faltered.
What had been a clean victory turned into chaos.
But Colin did not rush to meet them.
Instead, he stepped back.
Just one step.
And in that moment of stillness, he saw it.
The pattern. The control. The source.
His gaze cut through the madness—past the berserkers, past the swarm—
And locked onto the priest.
The true heart of the battle.
Everything else faded.
Only the target remained.
Colin lowered his stance, blade steady before him.
The killing intent in his eyes grew cold, precise, absolute.
There was only one path to victory.
And he had already chosen it.