At the breach in the West Wall, the air itself felt thick enough to choke on.
Blood.
Burnt wood.
Death.
Hask drove his blade through the chest of the last defender at his feet. The man's body convulsed once—then went still.
Hask didn't look down.
He ripped the blade free and kicked the corpse aside like refuse.
Above him, the wolf-head banner snapped violently in the wind, stained by smoke and ash.
Then—
a sound.
A whistle.
Sharp.
Strange.
It cut clean through the chaos.
To others, it was meaningless.
To them—
it was everything.
A low growl… then a hawk's cry.
The signal of the Wolf Guards.
Victory.
Hask froze for a heartbeat.
Then his blood ignited.
His eyes—already red—burned brighter.
The leader succeeded.
Colin had done it.
With thirteen riders—
he had severed the enemy's spine.
No reinforcements were coming.
Nothing stood behind them anymore.
"The breach is open!!"
Hask turned, raising his blade high.
His voice thundered across the flames.
"Follow me—! Charge in! Support our brothers!!"
He looked like something dragged out of a nightmare—drenched in blood, fire roaring behind him, a demon born for slaughter.
"ROAR—!!!"
The Wolf Fang Warriors answered as one.
No hesitation.
No fear.
They surged forward—thirty blades of flesh and steel—crashing into the West Camp like a broken dam unleashed.
What they stepped into—
was madness.
Fire consumed everything.
Smoke choked the sky.
The camp had become something else entirely.
Not a battlefield.
A reckoning.
Overseers—once untouchable—ran like animals, screaming, begging, dying.
One was dragged down by dozens, crushed beneath stomping feet and falling stones until nothing remained.
Another tried to fight—
A small Fox-folk darted behind him, teeth snapping into tendon.
He fell.
And the crowd tore him apart.
Everywhere—
blood.
Fire.
Screams.
The slaves had become something unstoppable.
But also—
something unfocused.
They raged.
They killed.
But they had no direction.
No end.
No escape.
Just fury.
That was when Hask arrived.
"Blackwood Fortress!"
His roar cut through everything.
Clear.
Dominant.
"We are the army of Blackwood Fortress!"
The chaos faltered.
Just for a moment.
"Follow us! Charge out!!"
All eyes turned.
They saw him.
Black armor.
Disciplined ranks.
The wolf banner rising above the breach.
Order—
in the middle of madness.
Hope—
given form.
"It's them…!"
"Reinforcements—!"
"The Wolf God's army!"
The words spread like wildfire.
The frenzy shifted.
The crowd began to move—not randomly, but toward something.
Toward purpose.
Toward survival.
Toward the flag.
Groups that had already formed under Broken Tooth rallied first—armed, bloodied, ready.
They surged toward Hask.
The tide began to take shape.
"Elder Broken Tooth!"
Hask spotted him instantly.
The one-eyed wolf stood at the center of a fight, chain weapon swinging, directing others as they crushed a trapped guard squad.
Hask rode straight through the chaos.
The crowd parted instinctively.
Broken Tooth turned—
and froze.
For a moment, everything in his eye flickered—shock, disbelief, relief.
"Lord Emissary…"
His voice trembled.
"You've come…"
"The leader has cut off the East Camp," Hask said flatly.
The words hit like thunder.
"No reinforcements."
A pause.
"Finish it here."
Broken Tooth exhaled.
Deep.
Heavy.
The weight he had carried—
lifted.
He turned.
Faced the thousands behind him.
They watched him.
Waiting.
Needing.
He roared.
"Did you hear that?!"
His voice carried farther than any blade.
"Our God has blocked them all!"
A ripple moved through the crowd.
Hope.
Real hope.
"Now—follow them!"
"Kill every enemy!"
"Take everything we need!"
His voice broke—
just slightly.
Then hardened again.
"And then—"
A breath.
A lifetime of pain behind it.
"—we go home."
Silence.
For one second.
Two.
Then—
it erupted.
"GO HOME—!!!"
"GO HOME—!!!"
The words struck deeper than anything else.
Not freedom.
Not revenge.
Home.
Something lost.
Something stolen.
Something worth killing for.
The tide changed.
Completely.
They were no longer a mob.
They were an army.
Hask's Wolf Fang Warriors became the spine.
The slaves—
the flood.
Together, they moved.
Not wildly.
Not blindly.
But forward.
Focused.
Unstoppable.
They swept through the West Camp, crushing the last pockets of resistance.
Systematic.
Relentless.
Their first target—
the warehouses.
Food.
Strength.
Survival.
The guards didn't stand a chance.
The doors broke open.
Inside—
bread.
Meat.
Ale.
The sight alone was enough to shake men to their core.
Hands reached.
Voices rose.
But this time—
they didn't scatter.
They held.
They moved together.
Because now—
they had somewhere to go.
The iron currents had met.
The tide had formed.
And it was moving—
toward the East.