Night pressed down upon the nameless mountain forest like a suffocating shroud. Only a handful of carefully hidden campfires flickered weakly, their light swallowed by the endless dark between the trees.
The allied army had not returned to safety. Instead, they hid—coiled like a beast in the mountains, waiting.
The scent of roasted meat drifted through the camp, thick and greasy, mixing with dried blood and damp earth. Colin sat alone atop a massive stone, removed from the noise. Alfred's ornate armor lay beside him, cold and lifeless. The knight's helmet rested across his knees, its hollow gaze reflecting nothing.
He stared into the darkness.
And then inward.
[Host: Colin][Race: Wolf-kin][Strength: 50] | [Agility: 39] | [Constitution: 39] | [Spirit: 10][Remaining Kill Points: 331]
Dry Bone Valley had been a slaughterhouse. He had carved through more than sixty men himself. Knights. Officers. Nobles.
The rest—his army—had devoured the remainder.
A thousand lives extinguished.
And from that, power.
A fortune of blood.
He could grow stronger. Far stronger.
Or he could make them stronger.
His eyes lingered on one entry:
[Basic Horsemanship Training Manual] — 10 Kill Points per person
Crude riders could become cavalry.Cavalry could become a storm.
Colin's gaze darkened.
A storm could erase nations.
Heavy footsteps approached.
"Colin."
Boulder.
The bear-man sat beside him, the rock groaning faintly under his weight.
"Nineteen," Boulder said. "Nineteen of mine are dead."
No anger. No shouting.
Just something heavier.
"They didn't run."
"They won't be forgotten," Colin replied, his voice quiet, almost cold. "Their names will be carved into Blackwood Fortress."
A pause.
Then, softer—
"Tonight, let them mourn. Tomorrow, we collect what is owed."
Boulder nodded once and left.
Hask came next—limping, cursing, bruised.
"Those damn horses," he spat. "Give me wolves any day."
"Three days," he added. "We'll manage."
Colin stood.
"One."
Hask blinked. "What?"
"One day."
Silence.
"That's impossible."
Colin didn't argue.
He simply put the armor back on.
Plate by plate.Steel swallowing flesh.
When he turned, something about him had changed.
"War teaches faster than time," he said. "They'll learn—or they'll die."
Hask said nothing more.
That night, the dead were gathered.
Thirty-one urns, wrapped in hide.
Fragments of armor placed before each.
No speeches. No rituals.
Only Colin.
"Remember them."
"They died so you could live."
A pause.
Steel slid free from its sheath.
"Now repay them."
"Kill."
The roar that followed shook the forest.
Not grief.
Not anymore.
Only hatred.
Later, beneath dim firelight, the leaders gathered.
A map lay between them—fine leather, stolen from the dead.
Every road. Every village. Every weakness.
Colin stood over it like a judge.
His gauntleted finger pressed down.
"East. Raymond's main force."
A pause.
"South. Distracted by the Bear Tribe."
Another pause.
His finger moved north.
"And here…"
Empty land.
Exposed.
Unprotected.
"…is where we gut him."
Then came the truth.
"The northern mines," Colin said. "They're not just iron."
Silence tightened.
"They're full of our kind."
Something in Boulder snapped.
Chains. Slavery. Beasts worked until death.
The air grew heavy.
"Then we don't wait," Colin said. "Winter is coming. If we delay, they die."
His finger dragged across the map.
A path.
A wound.
"We move fast."
"We burn everything."
"Fields. Mills. Wells."
"No food. No shelter."
"No survivors who can fight."
Each word fell like a blade.
"I want this land to starve."
"I want Raymond to choke on his own power."
"I want every noble to understand—"
His eyes lifted, cold and absolute.
"—that opposing us means extinction."
No one spoke.
No one objected.
Because they understood.
This wasn't war anymore.
This was annihilation.
Colin drew a final line across the map.
Thirty villages.
A killing path.
"My plan," he said quietly, "is the Crimson Wild Hunt."
Far away, in Westwind City—
A scream tore through the castle halls.
Alfred was dead.
A thousand men—gone.
Count Raymond stood amidst shattered glass and splintered wood, his sword dripping from the table he had split in half.
"Demi-humans…" he hissed.
His voice broke into something feral.
"I will grind you into dust."
"I will burn your forests."
"I will build a throne from your skulls."
But the storm had already begun.
And it was heading north.