Colin's arrival was like a stone dropped into still water, instantly breaking the fragile calm inside the tent.
His presence was nothing like the Fox-folk girl's softness or the Bearman's raw ferocity. It carried something colder—something controlled. A quiet authority forged from bloodshed and calculation.
The Bearman's newly opened eyes narrowed at once.
He had faced countless predators, clashed with human knights, survived brutal battles—but this feeling was different. The werewolf before him did not rely on overwhelming muscle like Hask, nor did he radiate killing intent like Goff. Yet somehow, just by standing there, he dominated the space.
Those deep blue eyes seemed to see too much.
For the first time in a long while, the great bear felt a trace of unease.
"Chief," the girl said softly, bowing as she stepped aside.
That single word sharpened the Bearman's vigilance even further.
So this… was the leader of this strange settlement?
Colin paid no mind to the tension.
His gaze swept calmly over the Bearman's wounds—thickly bandaged, treated with herbs—and the arm that remained coiled, ready to strike at any moment.
"It seems the herbs worked better than expected," he said evenly. "Surviving proves your body is strong enough."
He asked nothing else.
No name. No origin. No explanation.
That silence pressed harder than interrogation.
"…Water…" the Bearman finally rasped, his throat raw from days of unconsciousness.
The girl moved immediately, offering a waterskin. This time, he accepted.
He drank greedily, the cool liquid easing the fire in his throat. When he finished, his breathing steadied, and a hint of strength returned.
"I am Boulder," he said, voice like grinding stone. "From the Brown Bear Tribal Alliance in the south. I… owe you my life."
Colin gave a small nod.
"This is Blackwood Fortress. I am Colin, its chief," he replied simply. "You are injured. Rest first. We'll speak when you can stand."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and left.
Boulder was left staring after him, momentarily stunned.
He had prepared suspicion, resistance—even confrontation.
Instead, he was dismissed.
The Fox-folk girl smiled faintly at his confusion.
Blackwood Fortress was not what he expected.
The next ten days reshaped everything he thought he knew.
His body healed quickly under herbs and steady food. By the seventh day, he could stand. By the tenth, he could walk.
And with each step, he began to truly see the fortress.
The first shock came from the training grounds.
Snow Giant Wolves—half-grown, powerful—moved in coordinated formations under an instructor's command. They charged in spearhead formations, then scattered into flanking harassment.
They weren't beasts.
They were partners.
Boulder had seen war bears in his tribe, but those were little more than living battering rams, controlled by instinct and hunger.
This was different.
These wolves thought. Reacted. Cooperated.
"What are they doing?" he asked.
"Training," the girl replied. "The Chief says a wolf's claws and a human's mind must act as one. They're comrades—not tools."
"Comrades…" Boulder muttered, unsettled.
Further on, another sight stopped him cold.
Fields.
Dozens of Deer-folk worked the land with iron tools, turning soil, tending rows of thriving green crops.
Deer-folk.
Farming.
It defied everything he knew.
In his world, Deer-folk were weak—submissive, often prey. Survival meant hunting, migrating, enduring uncertainty.
But here?
They cultivated stability.
"They feed us," the girl said with quiet pride. "The Chief says the sword protects life—but the hoe sustains it."
Boulder said nothing.
He simply watched.
And something in his understanding began to crack.
Then came the forge.
Even before reaching it, he heard the hammering. Felt the heat. Smelled the iron.
Inside, the sight stunned him.
Women—apprentices—hammered glowing metal under the direction of a roaring dwarf.
Weapons lined the racks—uniform, precise, deadly.
Boulder picked one up.
Perfect balance. Razor edge.
Not a masterpiece.
A product.
Mass-produced.
His breath quickened.
In his tribe, such weapons were rare prizes—usually stolen from humans.
Here, they were stacked like firewood.
And suddenly, he understood.
This was how humans dominated the battlefield.
And now—
This place had learned the same secret.
"A dwarf?" he asked, shaken.
The girl nodded. "Master Berg. He forges our strength."
"And he serves… a werewolf?"
"Because the Chief gives him respect—and ore."
"Ore?"
She smiled. "We have our own mine."
Then, almost casually:
"The miners are goblins."
Boulder stared.
"…Goblins?"
"After the Chief killed their priest," she said lightly, "they became very cooperative."
By then, Boulder's worldview was in ruins.
Training wolves as partners. Races living together. Farming. Industry. Subjugated goblins.
This was no ordinary tribe.
This was something new.
Something dangerous.
Something rising.
On the fifteenth day, he sought Colin.
The "tent" was more a timber hall—simple, sturdy, purposeful. A map hung on the wall, marked with careful detail.
Colin gestured for him to sit.
"Injuries?"
"Recovered enough," Boulder said. "Chief Colin… your fortress has opened my eyes. I thank you."
Colin nodded, then went straight to the point.
"Why were you in the forest?"
Boulder's expression hardened.
"To find allies."
His voice burned with anger.
"The humans grow worse. They take land. Enslave our people. Slaughter tribes over suspicion."
His fists clenched.
"We will strike back. A united assault. A war against the Western Earldom."
Colin listened silently.
"So you seek coordination?" he asked.
"Yes."
Boulder leaned forward.
"Join us. Create chaos in the west. Hold their forces. We will strike their heart."
His voice surged with intensity.
"In return—we give you land. Spoils. Alliance."
Silence.
The offer was tempting.
Too tempting.
But Colin did not move.
"How many troops?" he asked calmly.
"When?"
"Where?"
"What forces does the enemy have?"
"How long can they sustain war?"
Each question hit like a hammer.
Boulder had no answers.
The fire in his eyes dimmed.
Colin already understood.
This was not strategy.
This was rage.
And rage alone could not win wars.
He stood and stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Boulder's shoulder.
"We are willing to be allies," he said.
"But not blindly."
His gaze sharpened.
"A war decides the fate of tribes. It must be planned."
He gestured outward.
"Send envoys. Sit with us. Plan everything—timing, strategy, spoils."
His voice was steady.
"We extend an olive branch—not to a clenched fist, but to a steady hand."
Boulder froze.
Then he understood.
This wasn't rejection.
It was elevation.
From request—
To alliance.
He stood and bowed deeply.
"You are a true leader," he said.
"I will return with your words."
Three days later, he departed.
Colin watched him leave, silent.
Beside him, Hask finally spoke.
"We just let him go?"
Colin didn't turn.
"Relying on others is weakness," he said calmly.
"Our blade must be our own."
He paused.
"I don't doubt we can defeat Raymond."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I'm thinking about what comes after."
Holding territory.
Population.
Power.
Then he turned.
"Come. The recruits are waiting."
As sunlight broke through the mist, it illuminated the rising smoke of the forge—
And the quiet ambition in Colin's eyes.
A storm was coming.
And this time—
He intended to be ready.