They did not hesitate.
They did not think.
The moment the chains broke, something deeper took control.
Hatred.
Memory.
Instinct.
Broken Tooth had carved the plan into them long before this night—not with words, but with suffering repeated until it became truth. Now, that truth erupted.
They surged forward.
Not as an army.
As a flood.
They split.
Three directions.
Three hungers.
First — the blade.
The strongest moved first.
Nearly a hundred Wolf-folk—lean, starved, but unbroken—rushed toward the smelting workshop like a storm given flesh.
Their target was not men.
It was power.
Inside, the guards were still laughing.
Half-awake. Unarmored. Safe in their ignorance.
"…South Gate's probably already finished—"
The door exploded inward.
Light. Heat. Movement.
Too fast.
Too sudden.
The laughter died before it could turn into screams.
Bodies disappeared beneath the surge.
Bones snapped.
Flesh gave way.
No one fought back.
No one had time.
The Wolf-folk ignored them.
Completely.
The dead were nothing.
The tools mattered.
Hammers.
Iron rods.
Pickaxes.
Broken blades.
Even glowing metal, fresh from the forge—still hot enough to burn flesh from bone.
They took everything.
Anything that could crush, pierce, tear—
They claimed it.
One wolf lifted a forging hammer, testing its weight, then roared—raw, savage, alive.
Another plunged his hand into a pile of heated scrap, gripping a jagged shard. His flesh sizzled.
He did not let go.
Pain no longer had meaning.
Only purpose.
When they turned back—
Their eyes had changed.
Red.
Burning.
No longer slaves.
Something else.
They spilled out of the workshop like blood from an opened vein.
Second — the slaughter.
These were the ones who remembered everything.
Every lash.
Every scream.
Every name that had been taken from them.
They did not run.
They hunted.
The overseer quarters stood ahead.
The largest house—the butcher's den.
Symbol.
Authority.
Hatred made wood and stone.
The first defenders barely formed a line.
They died before they could speak.
Claws tore throats open.
Hands ripped bodies apart.
The ground turned slick beneath them.
The door held.
For a moment.
Then—
BOOM.
Again.
BOOM.
Wood cracked.
Iron bent.
And then—
It gave.
Inside—
Men were still waking.
Still reaching for weapons.
Still trying to understand.
They never did.
The doorway filled with eyes.
Glowing.
Endless.
Watching.
Judging.
Condemning.
Then the darkness moved.
Screams.
High. Broken. Animal.
Begging.
Crying.
Praying.
None of it mattered.
Hammers fell.
Bones shattered.
Pickaxes drove through flesh.
Blood painted the walls in thick, violent arcs.
Hands clawed.
Teeth tore.
Bodies collapsed into each other, into the floor, into nothing recognizable.
Power died screaming.
And no one listened.
Keys?
No one searched for them.
No one cared.
Chains were already breaking.
And vengeance—
Vengeance needed no permission.
Third — the spread.
The oldest led this one.
Not the strongest.
Not the fastest.
But the ones who knew.
They moved deeper.
Into tunnels.
Into cages.
Into the places where hope had long since suffocated.
Doors shattered.
Bars bent.
Voices rose.
"We're free!"
The words felt foreign.
Unreal.
But the fire outside—
The noise—
The smell—
It was real.
At first, hesitation.
Then—
A roar.
A massive Boar-folk surged forward, clutching splintered wood like a weapon.
Then another.
And another.
Cages broke.
Fox-folk. Deer-folk. Others.
Weak bodies.
Empty eyes.
All of them changing.
At the deepest point—
Even the chained Bear-folk lifted their heads.
Suspicion.
Then understanding.
Then—
Fire.
"Kill them," someone growled.
And that was enough.
Race no longer mattered.
Strength no longer mattered.
Only one thing remained.
Break.
Destroy.
Take it back.
The West Camp collapsed.
Not slowly.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Fire spread.
Not just from the signal tower.
Everywhere.
Barracks.
Storehouses.
Roofs.
Everything that could burn—
Burned.
Smoke rose thick and black.
Carrying the smell of wood.
Of oil.
Of meat.
Sound followed.
Screams.
Roars.
Steel striking steel.
Wood collapsing.
Feet pounding.
Bodies falling.
It became something vast.
Something overwhelming.
A symphony of ruin.
The defenders tried.
Some of them.
A centurion gathered a handful of men—formed a circle.
Shields up.
Weapons ready.
Discipline.
Order.
It didn't matter.
A Wolf-folk dropped from above.
Hammer first.
Impact shattered the formation.
A gap opened.
Just one.
It was enough.
They were swallowed.
Torn apart.
Gone.
Others ran.
They didn't fight.
Didn't think.
Just ran.
But there was nowhere left to go.
The camp was no longer a place.
It was a tide.
A living, crushing force of bodies and fury.
They fell.
They were trampled.
Crushed into the mud.
Into the blood.
Into nothing.
Within minutes—
It was over.
The West Camp was gone.
Not defeated.
Erased.
From the inside.
And far above it all—
Unseen.
Unchallenged.
Colin's design unfolded perfectly.
Anna had lit the fuse.
Broken Tooth had become the explosion.
And the mine—
The fortress that had devoured thousands—
Had been torn open at its weakest point.
Its heart.
Rotten.
Burning.
Dying.