The smoke did not rise by accident.
It rose with purpose.
Black columns clawed upward across the western lands, one after another, like signals sent from a burning underworld—each plume carrying the same message:
You are next.
Those who escaped did not speak calmly. They babbled, stuttered, wept—describing things that did not belong in the world of men.
Wolf-headed riders.Bear-shaped giants.Boar-like butchers.Silent deer-eyed hunters.
And at their center—
A figure.
A man who was not a man.
The White Wolf King of Calamity.
He rode a beast the color of bone, and wherever he passed, life ended.
Ravens filled the sky.
They rose in frantic swarms from estates, manors, outposts—each one carrying a scrap of desperation tied to its leg.
Help.
Relief.
Survival.
They all flew toward one place—
Westwind City.
At first, the letters were ignored.
Minor disturbances. Border nuisances. The usual complaints of weak men with too much land and too little courage.
But the letters did not stop.
They multiplied.
Within three days, they became a flood.
They buried the Count's desk. Spilled over its edges. Covered the floor like fallen leaves—except these leaves bled.
The words changed.
What began as harassment became invasion.What was dismissed as raids became systematic slaughter.
Certain phrases began to repeat, over and over—
White Wolf Calamity.Demon Rider.Annihilation.
And beneath every sentence—
Fear.
"My estate is gone… burned… my people butchered or taken—""Five thousand refugees at my gates—food riots—my soldiers cannot hold them—""They poison wells… burn fields… they are erasing us—"
Ink blurred with tears.
Paper stained with blood.
At last, they could not be ignored.
The trembling secretary gathered them—arms shaking under their weight—and carried them into the Council Chamber.
The fire burned brightly inside.
It made no difference.
Cold still ruled the room.
Count Raymond stood before a vast war map.
Thirty years he had ruled.
Thirty years of iron.
But now—
The iron was cracking.
His once immaculate hair hung loose, disordered. His face had lost its color, drained to something ashen and rigid.
Before him, his lands bled.
Red crosses. Skull marks.
Each one a wound.
They spread outward from the Blackwood Forest like rot.
Slow.
Relentless.
Unstoppable.
Then—
Jinxi Town.
He read it again.
Three hundred soldiers.
Walls.
Roland.
Gone.
All of it.
Gone in less than an hour.
Something broke.
"Trash!"
The roar tore through the chamber like a beast unchained.
He spun, seized a silver goblet—fine work, delicate—and hurled it across the room. It struck stone and twisted inward with a shriek of metal, collapsing into something useless.
"Three hundred men!" he snarled. "A fortified town! Torn open by filth crawling out of the dirt?!"
His voice dropped—lower, more dangerous.
"Roland… was he fighting… or begging?"
No one answered.
No one dared.
"The East burns. The South bleeds. Now the West rots."
His gaze swept across his vassals.
"What do I keep you for?"
Silence answered.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
"I cleared Blackwood a year ago," he growled. "I was told it was finished."
A pause.
"So why… are they multiplying?"
No one spoke.
They could feel it—
The moment where anger turned into something sharper.
Something that killed.
"Father."
The voice cut through.
Young.
Steady.
Confident.
Alfred stepped forward.
Perfect armor. Perfect posture.
Perfect ignorance.
"These reports exaggerate," he said calmly.
A few heads lifted—just enough to watch him court death.
"A larger group of demi-humans, nothing more. They rely on surprise and cowardice. Without it, they are vermin."
"Vermin?" Raymond's eyes snapped toward him, bloodshot. "Vermin does not devour provinces."
"They devour weakness," Alfred replied smoothly.
A chair scraped.
A man stood—bandaged, broken, one eye gone.
Baron Graham.
One of the few who had seen.
Truly seen.
"They are not vermin!" he rasped. "They are an army!"
His voice shook—not from pain.
From memory.
"They fight like trained soldiers. Better than some of ours. Crossbows that pierce armor… beasts that don't feel pain…"
His breathing hitched.
"And him…"
Silence fell deeper.
"That man… he is not one of them."
A whisper now.
"He is something else."
Alfred laughed.
Soft.
Dismissive.
"You lost your courage, Baron."
Then, louder—
"A real army does not crawl across land dragging captives and cattle like a caravan of beggars."
He turned back to his father.
Eyes bright.
"Scouts confirm their position. Moving toward Dry Bone Valley. Slow. Burdened."
A pause.
Opportunity.
"They can be crushed."
Raymond's rage cooled.
Not gone.
Refined.
"Go on."
"Give me five hundred."
Alfred dropped to one knee.
"Two hundred Westwind Spear Knights. Three hundred Iron Shield Infantry."
His voice rose, filled with certainty.
"We move light. Fast. Strike before they reach the valley."
His lips curled.
"I will end this."
A breath.
"And bring you the head of the 'White Wolf Demon.'"
The chamber held its breath.
Raymond looked at his son.
Saw not caution—
But what he needed.
A victory.
Not survival.
Dominance.
Fear.
Control.
"Good."
His hand slammed onto the map.
Decision made.
"In my name," he declared, voice cutting like winter wind, "you command this campaign."
"Two hundred knights. Three hundred infantry. Reinforced by the troops of Wald and Gus."
His eyes hardened.
"Bring them back."
A pause.
"Alive or dead."
Another.
"The living—I hang."
"The dead—I flay."
Alfred smiled.
Bright.
Cold.
Certain.
By afternoon, the gates of Westwind City opened.
Steel poured out.
Knights. Infantry. Banners snapping in the wind.
An army built for crushing.
For ending.
For proving.
They rode south.
Toward glory.
Toward victory.
Toward something they did not understand.
Because ahead of them—
Unseen.
Unfelt.
Already waiting—
The trap had begun to close.