A blade, no matter how sharp, is useless once it leaves the hand that wields it. In the end, it is nothing more than cold iron.
Colin understood this better than anyone.
Under his relentless training, the individual strength of the Wolf Guards had reached a terrifying level. Each of them was more than capable of tearing through enemies alone.
But that was never his goal.
He did not want thirteen roaming assassins, detached from the battlefield. What he wanted was something far more dangerous—a force that could merge seamlessly with the army, strike at the perfect moment, and decide the outcome of a battle in an instant.
So, once their individual training stabilized, Colin shifted the focus.
From strength… to coordination.
The training grounds of Blackwood Fortress transformed into a living war sandbox.
And within it, Colin was the only one moving the pieces.
Dawn. Eastern forest edge.
Hask and thirteen Wolf Guards lay hidden beneath thick brush, their bodies still as stone. Beside them, the Snow Giant Wolves crouched low, their massive forms pressed into the earth, breaths so faint they seemed to vanish into the forest itself.
They waited.
Then—
A soft chirp.
Subtle. Deliberate.
A bird call—but not one of nature.
Every muscle tightened.
Moments later, a birch leaf trembled. Once. Twice. Three times.
Signal received.
Hask's eyes sharpened. His reply came as a low, controlled wolf-howl—barely audible, yet perfectly understood by his squad.
Target located.
Three enemies.
Scouts.
This was the battlefield language Colin had forged between the Deer-folk trackers—the army's "eyes"—and the Wolf Guards, its fangs.
The trackers saw.
The wolves struck.
"Move."
Fourteen white shapes burst from concealment—not forward, but outward, fanning into a silent arc. No wasted motion. No sound beyond the whisper of leaves.
The wolves' padded paws devoured distance without a trace.
Thirty paces.
Too late.
The "enemy scouts," played by veteran soldiers, barely had time to react before they found themselves staring into the cold precision of fourteen repeating crossbows.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
The hunt ended in an instant.
From afar, Colin lowered his binoculars, a faint nod of approval crossing his face.
The eyes and fangs were beginning to think as one.
Afternoon. Main training field.
If the morning was precision, the afternoon was violence.
Today's lesson: the hammer and the anvil.
The Wolf Guards were the hammer.
Goff's infantry—the Wolf Fang unit—was the anvil.
Across the field, the opposing force formed a tight shield wall. Spears bristled outward like a forest of iron.
The horn sounded.
"Wolf Guards! Charge!"
Hask led the assault.
The wolves surged forward like a crashing wave, their thunderous charge shaking the ground. They struck the shield wall with explosive force—
—and shattered it.
But then, the mistake.
Momentum carried them too far.
They punched straight through the formation… and kept going.
Behind them, the infantry was still advancing.
The result?
Separation.
Isolation.
The Wolf Guards found themselves surrounded beyond enemy lines, while the infantry, robbed of momentum, struggled against a reformed defense.
Colin's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
"Stop!"
Silence fell.
He descended from the platform, anger cold and sharp.
"This is war—not a display of heroics!"
His gaze locked onto Hask.
"Your job is not to charge blindly—it's to create opportunity."
Then to the infantry:
"And yours is to seize it before it vanishes!"
With a branch, he redrew the battle in the dirt—timing, spacing, signals. Again and again, until every man understood.
The drill restarted.
This time—
The Wolf Guards struck, broke the line—
and split.
Two flanking blades, cutting sideways instead of forward.
At that exact moment, the horn for infantry advance sounded.
The Wolf Fang unit surged in, precise and relentless, pouring into the breach.
Hammer.
Anvil.
Crush.
This time, it worked.
Perfectly.
Final exercise. Nightfall approaching.
The Bedrock Squad entered the field.
If the Wolf Guards were the spear, these Boar-folk were the shield—immovable, unbreakable.
With a roar, they charged head-on, forming a living wall that absorbed the enemy's full force. Blow after blow crashed against them—but they did not yield.
They held.
They endured.
They anchored the battlefield.
And on the flanks—
The wolves waited.
Silent.
Patient.
Then—
Patton's roar split the air.
The signal.
The enemy was locked.
Exposed.
"Kill."
The Wolf Guards moved.
Not like a charge—like a strike.
They hit from the sides and rear, cutting through the formation as if it didn't exist. Chaos followed instantly. The enemy collapsed under pressure from both directions.
Front locked.
Rear broken.
Total defeat.
By the time the horns signaled the end of training, night had fallen.
The field buzzed with energy—exhaustion, excitement, realization.
They had stumbled. Failed. Learned.
And now—
They were changing.
The wolves were no longer lone hunters.
The infantry was no longer blunt force.
The Boar-folk were no longer mere shields.
They were becoming something greater.
A single organism.
A unified force.
High above, Colin watched in silence.
Below him, the army moved—not as scattered parts, but as one.
He could feel it now.
A rhythm.
A pulse.
Not of individuals—
but of coordination.
Of discipline.
Of victory waiting to happen.