A seasoned veteran cavalryman stepped forward and bowed to the Divine Envoy.
"Lord Envoy, might we be allowed to spar with these Frost Soldiers to test their mettle?"
The Envoy nodded, signaling a bone-claw type Frost Soldier to step forward.
The veteran vaulted onto his Ice-Spine Strider, gripped his long-handled bone saber, and charged toward the Frost Soldier. The blade let out a whistle as it slashed toward the creature's head.
The Frost Soldier reacted with blinding speed. It shifted its body, dodging the slash with ease, while simultaneously swiping its bone claws across the Strider's underbelly. With a sharp rip, the thick fur and hide of the Strider were sliced open.
Startled, the veteran quickly turned for another strike but found himself relentlessly hounded by the Frost Soldier. After dozens of rounds of intense combat, the veteran managed to narrowly defeat the creature using his wealth of combat experience, yet he was left gasping for breath and drenched in sweat.
Dismounting, the veteran whispered to his companions: "It seems it takes two of these Frost Soldiers to match one of our cavalrymen."
In their eyes, a wildman cavalry army needed a five-to-one advantage to engage Orks, and a ten-to-one ratio to guarantee a steady victory. While the veteran didn't finish his thought, some of the sharper tribesmen understood the implication.
Though his voice was low, it caused a stir among the clansmen. The awe on their faces faded slightly, and doubt once again surfaced in their hearts. The Divine Envoy's cold gaze swept over the crowd, silent.
Doubt was the privilege of the weak.
He offered no defense. Instead, he simply waved a hand toward the Frost Soldiers inside the cave, leading them back into the altar cave and sealing the entrance. The tribesmen looked at one another, their confusion growing deeper.
That confusion turned entirely into bone-deep reverence that very night.
As night fell, the entrance to the altar cave suddenly swung open. One after another, white figures poured out in a continuous stream. It was as if there were no limit; the more that came out, the more followed.
They continued until one hundred thousand Frost Soldiers stood in perfect formation within the camp—a vast sea of white stretching as far as the eye could see. They stood motionless in the snow like cold statues, exuding an aura of frost and slaughter.
In just a single day, the altar cave had produced one hundred thousand Frost Soldiers, and the stream from within the entrance seemed never-ending. No matter the hour, Frost Soldiers poured out incessantly.
What shocked the wildmen even more was that these Frost Soldiers did not need food, sleep, or even training. From the moment they walked out of the cave, they possessed complete combat instincts. Furthermore, the greater their numbers, the more formidable they became.
While it took two to beat one cavalryman, ten could defeat six, and a hundred could crush eighty. They were vast in number, ferocious, and possessed morale that would never break.
The total fighting force of the entire Snow Claw clan was only around four to five million, and they had lost over a million in the last conflict. Yet, the number of Frost Soldiers was growing without cease.
At this moment, all doubt vanished, replaced by a reverence that seeped into their very marrow. The clansmen knelt in the snow once more, offering their most devout prayers toward the altar cave. They finally understood that the Frost Dragon's blessing was far more powerful than they had imagined.
The blade of the Frost Lord was now unsheathed.
A few days later, twenty kilometers outside the Forbidden Wall, in an abandoned mining district.
This mine was a relic of Brevis's industrial era, abandoned due to the catastrophic environmental shift, and had now been occupied by Greenskins. Tens of thousands of Ork Boyz were shouting and brawling within the mine—some swinging choppas, others digging for scrap metal. The entire area was a chaotic mess.
They did not know that the shadow of death had already draped over the valley.
The slopes on either side of the valley were steep and covered in thick snow. Several thousand Snow Claw wildman cavalry were lying in ambush on the slopes, their white fur blending perfectly with the snowy ground. Beside them stood a wildman shaman dressed in special ceremonial robes.
This was a "Frost Priest" who had received the blessing of the Frost Dragon. A pale blue frost pattern was carved into his forehead, and a slender, third arm had grown from his right ribs.
The lead cavalry captain nodded to the Frost Priest.
The Frost Priest closed his eyes and pressed his three hands together, chanting an ancient prayer of the plains to establish a conscious link with the "Frost Dragon" located in the Twin Peaks.
As the prayer concluded, the Priest's eyes snapped open. His extra right hand pointed sharply toward the valley floor.
In the next second, the ground at the bottom of the valley began to vibrate violently, followed by the sound of cracking ice. The hard frozen earth split open, and over a dozen massive ice lotuses erupted from the fissures. The petals of the lotuses were translucent pale blue, radiating vibrant life energy.
The Orks brawling in the mine froze, stopping their antics to turn and stare at the sudden appearance of the ice lotuses. In that moment of hesitation, the dozen giant lotuses bloomed simultaneously.
The petals unfurled, revealing dense, white figures packed inside. One hundred thousand Frost Soldiers surged out of the lotuses like a tidal wave, their white forms instantly submerging the entire valley. They let out bloodthirsty screeches as cold murderous intent filled the air, pouncing upon the surrounding Greenskins.
The bone-claw type Frost Soldiers were incredibly agile, charging into the Ork mobs and swinging their sharp claws with wild abandon. Often, several would pounce on a single Boy at once, tearing him apart. The bodies of the Orks were easily shredded, their blood staining the snow a dark green.
The bio-cannon type Frost Soldiers formed neat ranks in the rear. Their muzzles condensed frost energy, firing volleys of pale blue ice spikes like a torrential rain. Ork Boyz were impaled and shattered into frozen shards upon hitting the ground.
The coordination of the Frost Soldiers was terrifyingly precise. The bone-claw types handled the melee slaughter, tearing open defensive lines, while the bio-cannon types provided long-range suppression to clear out dense clusters of enemies. They knew no fear and no retreat; even if struck by a choppa, they would continue to pounce until the last spark of life vanished.
It was a one-sided massacre. The swarm of Frost Soldiers was a cold meat grinder. The Orks' savagery and brutality were helpless against the efficiency and coldness of the Frost Soldiers. Their roars and bellows echoed through the valley but could not halt the advance of the swarm.
The wildman cavalry on the slopes watched the battle below, their eyes filled with shock and terror. They had seen countless battles with Greenskins, but never a massacre so brutal and efficient. One hundred thousand Frost Soldiers, like a cold war machine, ground ten thousand Ork Boyz into nothingness.
In just half an hour, the battle was over. The valley was a wreck, littered with Ork corpses and debris, the ground turning green and steaming. Not a single Ork Boy survived.
The Frost Soldiers had paid a price as well; approximately thirty thousand units were damaged or destroyed in the battle, lying still in the snow.
The wildmen watched the valley's dense carpet of green corpses in silence, then looked at the fallen Frost Soldiers with complex emotions. A loss of thirty thousand seemed high.
However, those damaged Frost Soldiers were but a fraction of the endless stream pouring out of the altar cave. In a few hours, an equal number of Frost Soldiers would emerge from the cave and rejoin the fight.
The Frost Soldiers did not rest. They began to systematically recover all the remains in the valley—both the Ork carcasses and the husks of their fallen kin. This was all biomass, to be sent back into the conversion network and turned into nourishment for the next batch of soldiers.
The wildman cavalry on the slopes watched this scene quietly. They finally understood just how terrifying the power of the Frost Dragon truly was.
The fangs of the Frost Lord were not only sharp—they were also inexhaustible.