Autumn had settled deep into Blackwood Forest, painting half the land in shades of burning crimson.Cold rains had long since washed away the last traces of summer heat, leaving behind air rich with damp soil and the sharp, clean scent of dying leaves.
It was the season of harvest.
And for Blackwood Fortress, the harvest would not be grain alone—but victory, forged through months of sweat, blood, and steel.
On the eastern military grounds, silence reigned.
No clashing weapons. No shouted drills.
Only stillness—heavy, expectant.
An army stood assembled.
For the first time, it bore a name:
The Blackwood Fortress Legion.
At the forefront of the raised platform stood Colin.
He wore finely crafted leather armor, reinforced with alloy plates at vital points—light enough for speed, strong enough to turn a killing blow. A repeating crossbow rested across his back, and at his side hung a long, slender blade, dark as flowing shadow—Berg's finest work.
Behind him stood a figure that drew no sound, yet commanded unease.
Mo.
Silver, silent, and watchful.
Its molten-gold eyes swept across the ranks below, and any soldier who met that gaze felt a chill crawl deep into their bones.
Colin's eyes moved across his legion.
Sharp. Measuring. Absolute.
At the core stood the Wolf Fang Squadron, under Goff's command.
Thirty werewolf elites stood like iron pillars—uniform armor studded with black iron, wolf-head emblems glinting coldly in the autumn sun. Their three-meter spears formed a bristling forest of steel, while sabers, bows, and full quivers spoke of deadly versatility.
Beside them stood the Forest Tracker Squadron, led by Anna.
Though reduced in number, the thirty scouts—Deer-folk and Fox-folk alike—held their formation with quiet confidence. These were no longer mere hunters. They were the legion's eyes, its instincts, its unseen reach into the wild.
At the very front—
Barton's Bedrock Squad.
Seven Boar-folk.
Seven immovable walls.
Encased in heavy iron armor, shields like fortress gates strapped to their backs, axes in hand that looked capable of cleaving through anything that dared stand before them.
They did not move.
They did not need to.
They were the line that would never break.
And at the rear—
The most feared unit of all.
Thirteen figures mounted upon Snow Giant Wolves.
The Wolf Guards.
Lean armor for speed. Long sabers for reach. Repeating crossbows for devastation.
Each mount carried additional bolts, turning every rider into a mobile storm of steel.
They were not soldiers.
They were execution.
The entire legion stood like a perfectly tuned war machine.
Silent.
Waiting.
Colin turned to the commanders at his side.
Hask stepped forward first.
His mount, Bonebreaker, was a beast of raw brutality—massive, fanged, and restless, a low growl rumbling from its chest like distant thunder.
Next came Goff.
His wolf, Shadow, was lean and watchful, its gaze constantly shifting, calculating—never still, never careless.
Anna followed.
Moonlight, her pure white companion, stood calm at her side, almost gentle in appearance—until its icy eyes flickered with killing intent.
And finally—
Colin himself.
With Mo behind him, silent as death.
Four leaders.
Four wolves.
The mind of the legion.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Then—
A single growl broke the silence.
Low.
Primal.
It spread like fire.
In the next instant, the entire legion erupted.
Howls tore into the sky.
Roars followed—deep, thunderous, unstoppable.
The sound surged like a tidal wave, crashing upward, scattering clouds and shaking the very air.
This was not noise.
This was power made audible.
Not far away, inside the blacksmith shop, Berg paused.
He listened.
And smiled.
"Go on, my beauties…" he muttered, pride thick in his voice. "Let the world hear you."
Blackwood Fortress—silent for a season—had finally bared its fangs.
The hunt was about to begin.