The instant Colin's arm cut through the air, the fury held in check all morning detonated.
"Kill!"
The single word fell like a blade—and the formation erupted.
"Bedrock!"
Barton's roar followed, deep and crushing like a mountain collapsing. The Boar-folk captain slammed his axe against his chestplate with a thunderous clang, and the six warriors behind him moved as one.
Seven figures. Seven iron towers.
They surged forward.
Each step pounded the earth, their charge forming an unstoppable wedge aimed straight at the village gate.
The guards were still reeling from the fires when they saw them—these monsters bursting from the forest.
"E-enemy! Close the gate! Close—!"
Too late.
"BREAK IT!"
Seven axes rose—and fell in perfect unison.
BOOM.
The gate didn't break.
It exploded.
Wood shattered inward in a storm of splinters. The latch snapped like thread. The entire structure collapsed under the force, crushing the defenders behind it before they could even scream.
And then the flood came.
"Bearmen! With me!"
Boulder charged first, his roar igniting the hundred warriors behind him. They poured through the broken gate like a tidal wave of muscle and steel.
What followed was brief.
Cries. Steel. Blood.
Then silence.
Less than half an hour later, the village was gone.
When Colin entered, riding slowly atop Mo, the battle was already over.
Smoke drifted through the air. Blood soaked the ground. The smell of ash and death hung thick and unmoving.
In the center of the village, the survivors—hundreds of them—were gathered together.
They trembled like livestock.
Around them stood the coalition warriors—silent, armed, watching.
Colin didn't look at the people.
His eyes swept over the supplies instead.
Grain. Meat. Weapons.
Barely enough.
"Leader," Hask said, unable to hide his excitement, "it's done. No one escaped."
Colin nodded once.
"Take seven days of food," he said flatly. "Burn the rest."
Anna hesitated.
"…And the prisoners?"
Silence fell.
Everyone knew the options.
Slaves.
Or something worse.
Colin didn't answer immediately.
In his mind, calculations unfolded.
Fear could spread.
But fear took time.
Power did not.
Letting them go meant information would spread—numbers, composition, tactics.
Taking them back meant burden.
He needed neither.
He needed control.
Absolute control.
His gaze lifted.
Cold. Empty.
"Leave none alive."
A ripple moved through the ranks.
Hask and Barton were already stepping forward—
"Wait."
Colin raised a hand.
They stopped.
Confused.
Then he moved.
He dismounted.
Drew his sword.
And walked alone toward the captives.
No speech.
No hesitation.
Just motion.
A flash—
The first man died before he understood what happened.
Another step.
Another cut.
Clean. Precise. Silent.
No screams—because throats were severed before sound could form.
No struggle—because death came faster than fear.
Colin moved through them like a shadow.
Like something inevitable.
Not rage.
Not cruelty.
Efficiency.
A harvest.
The warriors watched.
At first, with expectation.
Then unease.
Then something deeper.
Because this… was different.
They killed with fury.
With instinct.
With noise.
But Colin—
Colin killed without emotion.
Without change.
As if life and death meant nothing at all.
Minutes passed.
Then it was over.
The clearing fell silent again.
But now, it was a different silence.
One filled with the weight of what remained.
Bodies.
Blood.
Stillness.
Colin stood alone at the center.
His blade gleamed, untouched by stain save for a single drop sliding from its tip.
Drip.
No one spoke.
Not Hask.
Not Boulder.
Not even the wind.
Colin exhaled slowly.
Behind his eyes, numbers rose.
Meaningless.
Useful.
Nothing more.
"Goff."
"Yes."
"Burn everything."
No hesitation.
"Understood."
Flames rose soon after.
They swallowed the village whole.
Fire climbed into the sky, devouring wood, grain, and memory alike.
Colin stood before it, unmoving.
The light of the inferno reflected in his eyes—but brought no warmth.
Whatever hesitation once lived there…
Was gone.
From this moment on—
He was no longer just a leader.
He was something colder.
Something inevitable.
A king forged not by mercy—
But by necessity.