The Crimson Wild Hunt lasted longer—and sank deeper into brutality—than any of them had expected.
Twenty-seven settlements around Iron Oak City had been erased. In return, the army carried full packs—smoked meat, sausages, hardened wheat cakes. Behind them, only ash remained. Charred earth. Collapsed roofs. Silence.
Something inside the army had changed.
Victory no longer stirred them. There were no cheers when a manor fell, no laughter after bloodshed. They advanced in silence, killed in silence, burned in silence, and marched on. Again and again, until it became instinct. Their eyes hardened, stripped of hesitation, stripped of mercy—left with nothing but obedience and the raw will to survive.
Too many screams had passed through their ears. Too many curses. Death had become as ordinary as breath.
Three days of forced marching later, they reached the edge of their destination—the Northern Mine.
They knew it before they saw it.
The air turned foul. Dust mixed with coal ash, rust, and something rotten—something human. It pressed into their lungs, thick and suffocating.
Then came the sound.
A distant, endless clamor—metal striking stone. Not rhythm, not order. Just ceaseless impact, like something buried deep underground clawing its way out.
"All troops, halt. Take cover."
Colin's command rippled down the line.
The army slipped into a forest of deadwood. Trees long since poisoned stood skeletal and gray, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. Perfect cover. Lifeless. Silent.
The soldiers dismounted without a word. Armor shifted softly. Breath slowed. Weapons were checked.
No fire.
No light.
Colin's order was absolute—anyone who broke it would die.
They ate cold rations in silence, chewing without taste, washing it down with stale water. Waiting. Gathering strength.
Dusk bled across the sky.
"Anna. Hask. Shadow. Claw. With me."
Five figures broke away, melting into the dying light.
They avoided paths, climbing rock faces, pushing through thorns. Every step deliberate. Every movement quiet.
The closer they came, the worse it became.
The smell thickened—decay, filth, despair. The hammering grew louder, sharper, until it filled the skull.
At the ridge, they stopped. Crouched. Looked.
And even Colin's pupils tightened.
Below them lay something beyond language.
A wound carved into the earth.
The mine was vast—unnaturally so. Not carved, but torn open. A black abyss yawning wide, as if struck by something divine and merciless. From its depths, a cold breath rose like something alive.
Paths coiled upward from the darkness—thin, steep, twisting like serpents. Upon them, countless figures moved. Small. Endless.
The core of the pit was enclosed by a towering log wall. Each trunk thick as a man's embrace, sharpened at the top—like teeth. Watchtowers rose at intervals, silhouettes pacing slowly in the dying light.
Beyond the wall—
Hask's vision burned red.
The "dwellings."
They weren't homes.
They were piles of rot.
Shacks built from broken wood, mud, scraps of hide—crammed together until they merged into a single mass. No space. No order. Just filth layered upon filth.
Sewage seeped through cracks, pooling into black streams that crawled across the ground.
Further out, the smelting workshops crouched like beasts. Chimneys vomited thick black smoke into the sky, staining it a sickly yellow. Ore and iron lay piled like graves.
And everywhere—
Movement.
Tens of thousands.
Slaves.
Wrapped in rags that barely covered bone. Limbs thin as sticks. Skin gray, lifeless. Bare feet dragging across slag and frozen mud.
A line of werewolves hauled a massive cart up from the pit. Chains bit into their necks, linking them to the weight. Their bodies trembled with each step.
"Faster, you useless dogs! No work, no food!"
The overseer's whip cracked.
It struck the last in line.
The werewolf collapsed.
The cart shifted.
Chains snapped taut.
The entire line faltered—then began to slide.
Screams erupted.
The overseer rushed forward, face twisted, whipping again and again. Flesh split open under each strike.
No one resisted.
No one fought back.
They curled inward, choking on pain, their eyes empty—already dead, just not buried.
Elsewhere, a boar-folk youth dropped an iron ingot.
It crushed his foot.
His scream barely lasted a moment before guards descended, beating him as he writhed.
"Get up! Stop pretending!"
Even from afar, the despair was suffocating.
This wasn't a mine.
It was a slaughterhouse that breathed.
"…That's the Northern Mine."
Anna's voice trembled beneath its calm.
Hask growled—low, feral. His grip tightened until his knuckles blanched.
"I'll kill them… I'll tear them apart…"
He leaned forward.
A gauntleted hand stopped him.
Cold. Unyielding.
Colin.
"Calm down."
He didn't look at Hask.
Didn't look at the slaves.
His gaze swept the battlefield, sharp and merciless.
"Fourteen watchtowers. Four primary, ten secondary. Two men each."
"Walls—five meters. Reinforced. Northwest section repaired recently."
"Three gates. South—main, heavily guarded. East—supply route, narrow. West—poorly defended, terrain unstable, smoke cover."
"Patrols—twelve per unit. Fixed routes. Overlap gap: thirty breaths."
"Overseers—approximately two hundred. Weakest link."
His mind worked without pause, assembling the battlefield piece by piece.
The garrison was equipped.
But not ready.
Not here.
Not anymore.
"Hask," Colin said, voice flat, "your anger is useless. Right now, it kills us."
Silence.
"Temper it. When I need it—you unleash it."
Hask's breathing slowed.
"…Understood."
Colin released him.
Below, hell continued.
Inside his mind, the mine was no longer chaos—it was structure. Angles. Timings. Weaknesses.
"My Lord…" Anna whispered, "what do we do?"
Colin didn't answer at once.
He licked dry lips.
Then—
A faint smile curved beneath his visor.
"I count at least six thousand slaves."
A pause.
"And twelve hundred garrison."
His voice dropped lower.
Colder.
"Raymond…"
A flicker of something cruel passed through his eyes.
"…you've handed me a battlefield."