No matter how sharp a blade might be, once it leaves the hand that wields it, it is nothing more than lifeless steel.
Colin understood that better than anyone.
Under his relentless discipline, the Wolf Guards had already reached terrifying heights in individual combat. But that had never been his end goal. He had no interest in cultivating a handful of unmatched killers who fought alone and died alone.
What he wanted was something far more dangerous—
A force that could strike as one.
A blade that moved with purpose.
A killing edge that appeared only at the decisive moment.
So, the moment their individual training stabilized, Colin shifted everything toward a harder, more demanding frontier:
coordination.
The First Integration
On the third day after the legion's reorganization, the still-warm morning air was pierced by a long horn blast from the southern watch.
Friendly forces approaching.
Colin, along with Goff, Hask, Anna, and the others, ascended the southern wall at once.
What they saw rolling across the plains was not an army of discipline—
—but a tide of raw strength.
Dust surged like a living thing behind them, and at the front marched one hundred Bearmen warriors, massive and bare-chested, their muscles coiled like iron cables. In their hands were crude weapons—stone axes, bone clubs—primitive, yet brimming with savage force.
Behind them came three hundred Deer-folk warriors, light-footed and sharp-eyed. Unlike Blackwood's trained scouts, these were hunters—lean, instinctive, and deadly in their own way.
Their equipment was crude.
Their formation was loose.
But their eyes—
Their eyes burned.
Not with fear.
But with war.
And trust.
Trust in the black fortress ahead.
Arrival of Allies
"Open the gates," Colin ordered.
The drawbridge lowered.
The gates spread wide like open arms.
At the head of the column, Boulder stepped forward—larger than the rest, his presence like a moving wall. Without ceremony, he closed the distance and slammed a heavy hand onto Colin's shoulder.
"Brother Colin! We're here!" he boomed. "Seven days. That's all before the attack begins!"
Colin clasped his hand firmly, smiling.
"Welcome."
No feast. No delay.
Instead, Colin turned and gestured forward.
"Come with me."
The Arsenal
They passed through the training grounds and stopped before a massive, unassuming warehouse.
Boulder frowned slightly.
Colin gave no explanation.
He simply nodded.
The doors opened.
And the world inside changed everything.
Rows.
Endless rows.
Steel upon steel.
Weapons stacked in perfect order, gleaming under the sunlight that spilled through the doorway.
The air itself seemed heavier—thick with the scent of iron and power.
Closest to the entrance were the Bearmen's weapons:
Massive double-edged axes, forged from solid steel, their dark-blue sheen whispering of destruction.
Beyond them—
Three hundred iron spears.
Uniform. Sharp. Lethal.
Made for the Deer-folk.
Boulder froze.
For the first time, words failed him.
"These… these are…"
Colin stepped forward, lifting one of the heavy axes and placing it into Boulder's hands.
"Loaned," he said calmly. "You'll repay them—with victory."
Boulder gripped the weapon.
Felt its weight.
Its balance.
Its promise.
Then—
He roared.
A roar that shook the air itself.
Outside, the allied warriors rushed in. For a heartbeat, silence fell—
—and then erupted.
Cheers exploded like thunder.
Stone weapons were discarded without hesitation. Hands traced polished steel with reverence and disbelief. Eyes blazed brighter than ever before.
In that moment—
Morale didn't rise.
It ignited.
The Necessary Restraint
"Let's march now!" Boulder urged, still burning with excitement. "We'll tear that count apart before he can breathe!"
Colin shook his head.
"No."
Calm. Firm.
"Steel alone doesn't win wars."
He looked at the gathered warriors.
"Men who don't know how to fight together… break."
Silence followed.
"We have six days," Colin continued. "And we will use every moment."
Breaking and Forging
The next six days turned Blackwood Fortress into a crucible.
Colin dismantled the structure of his own forces—splitting the Wolf Fang squads and embedding them among the Bearmen and Deer-folk.
Training became chaos.
At first.
Hask's voice thundered across the field:
"Wrong side! That's your left, you fur-brained idiot!"
Bearmen ignored formations, charging out on instinct.
Deer-folk misread signals.
Commands had to be repeated. Again. Again. Again.
Discipline clashed with instinct.
Order fought chaos.
And for a time—
Chaos won.
Control Through Force
But Colin did not bend.
And neither did Boulder.
When words failed, Boulder stepped in personally—dragging warriors back into line, correcting mistakes with iron-handed authority.
Anna's scouts standardized signals.
Goff drilled fundamentals without rest.
Every mistake was corrected.
Every flaw hammered out.
Relentlessly.
The Turning Point
Day one:
A mob.
Day three:
A formation—barely holding.
Day six:
Something new.
When the horn sounded—
"All forces, advance!"
—they moved.
Not perfectly.
Not smoothly.
But together.
One step.
One roar.
One surge forward.
The Birth of an Army
That evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, Colin stood watching from above.
Below him was no longer a collection of tribes.
No longer scattered strength.
What he saw was something being born—
An army.
Still rough.
Still unrefined.
But united.
The chaos had been melted down.
The pieces fused.
Like iron in a furnace—
They had begun to become one.