The granary doors did not break.
They were devoured.
Torn apart under countless hands, they gaped open like a split carcass, exposing everything within—food, sustenance, life itself—spilling it out into a sea of starving bodies that surged forward with a hunger that had long ceased to be human.
There was no hesitation.
Only instinct.
Black bread—hard, stale, barely worthy of animals—became treasure beyond imagination. Salted meat, stiff with age and fat, released a thick, greasy scent that clung to the air like temptation itself.
A young werewolf seized a chunk of bread.
For a moment, his hands trembled.
Not from weakness.
From disbelief.
Then, instead of eating, he tore it apart—slowly, almost reverently—and pressed the larger half into the hands of a skeletal child beside him.
The girl did not move.
Her hollow eyes stared.
At him.
At the bread.
At something she no longer trusted to be real.
Only when he forced it into her grasp did she react.
Like a cornered animal, she clutched it to her chest, hunched over it, and bit down.
Hard.
Too hard.
She did not chew—she devoured.
Tears burst from her eyes, scalding, unstoppable, carving lines through the dirt on her face. She sobbed as she ate, choking, swallowing without breathing, as if afraid the world would take it back if she paused even for a heartbeat.
All around them, the same scene unfolded.
Weeping.
Gnawing.
Gasping.
The sound of teeth against bread echoed like the grinding of bones.
And yet—
"WOUNDED AND CHILDREN FIRST!"
The roar cut through everything.
Hask.
He sat atop his war wolf like a monument carved from iron and violence. His gaze swept across the frenzy—not with sympathy, not with pity—but with control.
Behind him, the Wolf Fang Warriors formed a wall.
Unyielding.
Cold.
Anyone who tried to break order met their stare—and stopped.
Discipline did not return naturally.
It was forced back into existence.
Broken Tooth stood among the crowd, his body swaying slightly, one hand gripping a chain still slick with brain matter. His voice, hoarse and ragged, pushed through the chaos.
"Don't rush… don't waste it…!"
"Eat… then kill…!"
His words spread like infection.
Slowly.
Reluctantly.
The frenzy bent.
The weak were dragged forward. The wounded were fed. The children—those who could still eat—were given pieces with trembling hands.
The strong chewed in silence.
Quickly.
Mechanically.
Not for survival.
For strength.
Because they all understood.
Full stomachs were not for living.
They were for killing.
When they rose again, something had changed.
The trembling was gone.
The hesitation was gone.
What remained was quieter.
Colder.
More dangerous.
Hask moved first.
His blade lifted.
The Wolf Fang Warriors followed.
Behind them, the strongest of the freed slaves gathered—not as a mob, but as something sharper, something forming into shape.
They swept through the West Camp like a blade dragged across flesh.
There was no resistance left.
Only remnants.
Hidden men.
Cowering shapes.
Breathing mistakes.
They were dragged out.
One by one.
No mercy.
No delay.
No sound lasted long.
By the time the last scream faded into the smoke-choked sky, the West Camp was no longer a place.
It was a carcass.
Burning.
Bleeding.
Empty.
"West Camp… cleared."
Broken Tooth spoke the words slowly, leaning on a newly taken blade. His single eye flickered—not with relief, but with something darker.
Completion.
Hask nodded once.
Then he looked east.
Toward the place where the fire had not yet consumed everything.
Toward the heart.
"Target… the South Wall."
His voice dropped.
Cold.
Heavy.
"Knight Rodon… alive."
A pause.
Then—
"He belongs to the leader."
The army moved.
Six thousand bodies.
Six thousand breaths.
Six thousand burning wills.
Not disciplined.
Not ordered.
But united.
By hatred.
They entered the Central Passage.
And stopped.
Even the mad quieted.
Even the blood-drunk slowed.
Because what lay before them—
Was wrong.
The passage was full.
Not of battle.
Of aftermath.
Bodies layered the ground in thick, uneven piles. Not scattered.
Stacked.
Pressed together like discarded refuse.
Every corpse wore the armor of the East Camp.
Every face carried the same expression.
Frozen terror.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
Most of them stared upward.
As if they had seen death descend from the sky—
And could do nothing but watch.
Their bodies were riddled with bolts.
Black shafts still embedded deep in flesh, in eyes, in throats.
Some were nailed to the ground.
Others pinned together.
Men fused into grotesque shapes by iron.
Further in—
It worsened.
The earth had been torn open.
Not literally.
But it looked that way.
As if something massive had carved through the formation, ripping men apart mid-stride.
Limbs lay scattered.
Torsos split.
Some bodies ended… without explanation.
Blood had nowhere to go.
So it gathered.
Pooling.
Spreading.
Flowing slowly along the uneven ground.
A river.
Dark.
Thick.
Still warm.
No enemy corpses.
Not one.
Silence swallowed the army.
"…Was this… them?"
A young voice whispered.
Shaking.
"Who else?"
The answer came quietly.
Almost reverently.
Hask dismounted.
Each step forward was heavy.
Measured.
He crouched beside a corpse and pulled a bolt free.
The flesh resisted.
Then gave.
He turned it in his hand.
Recognized it instantly.
The craftsmanship.
The cruelty.
The intention.
He had known Colin was dangerous.
He had been wrong.
This was not danger.
This was judgment.
Fourteen.
Against three hundred.
And this…
was the result.
Not a battle.
Not even a slaughter.
An erasure.
Hask rose slowly.
Mounted again.
Turned to face the thousands behind him.
They were no longer shouting.
No longer wild.
They were staring.
At the path ahead.
At the blood beneath their feet.
At the invisible force that had carved this road for them.
Something had taken root in their eyes.
Not madness.
Not rage.
Faith.
"Advance."
Hask's voice broke the silence.
Lower now.
Heavier.
Carrying something new.
"For the leader."
The response came.
Not chaotic.
Not scattered.
Unified.
"FOR THE LEADER!!"
They marched.
Over bodies.
Through blood.
Breathing in death with every step.
Toward the East Camp.
Toward the last resistance.
Toward the end.
And in the distance—
The war horn sounded.
Long.
Deep.
Final.
The mine did not tremble.
It accepted.