The night was as dark as ink, and the wind cut through the canyon like a freezing blade.
Through the shadows, Colin led his remaining fifty-seven warriors, moving like a pack of silent ghosts against the snow. No one spoke. The only sounds were the heavy, ragged breathing of the men and the rhythmic crunch of boots and paws against the ice—noises instantly swallowed by the howling gale.
This was not a rout; it was a strategic retreat. In the eyes of the Wolf Guards, there was no shame or frustration, only a lingering, unsatisfied bloodlust and a cold, parting glance cast back toward the human camp.
By all metrics, the raid had been a triumph. Yet in Colin's heart, the thrill of victory was utterly absent, replaced by a suffocating, ever-tightening weight.
The Rendezvous
Midway through the canyon, they finally met up with Hask and the detachment tasked with securing their escape route.
Hask's men had successfully cleared a steep, narrow slope—a bottleneck that forced the wolves and riders to pass through in a single, tight file. When they saw Colin's silhouette emerge from the blizzard, the waiting warriors erupted into a chorus of relief and excitement.
"Leader! You're back!"
"Sounds like we tore those human scumbags to pieces!"
"I knew it! Nothing stands in our way!"
But as the returning vanguard stepped into the dim light, the cheers withered away.
The returning Wolf Guards were drenched in blood. Many were wounded, but it wasn't the physical injuries that silenced the crowd—it was the look on their faces. An unprecedented gravity hung over them, a volatile mix of raw battle instinct and sheer wariness. It was the look a predator wears only when it realizes it has stumbled into the territory of something much larger, and much more dangerous.
At the front of the line stood Colin.
His expression was frozen, his eyes as cold and bottomless as a glacial pool. The aura bleeding off him was sharper, heavier, and far more lethal than when he had set out.
"Leader... are you hurt?" Anna asked, her sharp eyes instantly catching the faint laceration on Colin's cheek.
The wound was shallow, but its edges bore an unnatural, bluish-white tint, as though the flesh itself had been frosted over. A tense murmur rippled through the gathered werewolves. In their minds, Leader Colin was invincible. Who possessed the skill to bypass his flawless defense and leave a scar?
"A scratch," Colin muttered, casually wiping the blood away.
The Weight of a True Powerhouse
The touch of his fingers against the cold wound caused an unbidden image to flash through his mind: the silver-haired woman.
Recalling their brief, lethal exchange, a phantom tremor of dread passed through him. It wasn't the fear of a coward, but the profound shock of a warrior who had stared into an abyss.
That eerie, freezing sword qi had bled through their clashing steel, nearly paralyzing half his body. Even now, a numb, aching cold lingered deep within his right sword-arm, as if his very blood were crystallizing.
Her speed defied all logic. She was a petite woman, yet her explosive movements were a fraction faster than his own, her steps seemingly anchoring to the very fabric of space to bypass the constraints of distance.
And then there was her strength. Colin knew, with brutal certainty, that she had been playing with him. From the first strike to the last, she had moved with the casual grace of a cat batting at a cornered mouse. Her slender rapier possessed a terrifying, concentrated piercing power; the deep, jagged gouges marring his own fine iron blade were the proof.
If she hadn't been amused by the hunt, and if I hadn't broken away exactly when I did... I would be a corpse in that camp right now.
She was a powerhouse. Not merely a strong opponent, but an existence operating on an entirely different dimension of power than anyone he had ever faced.
Worse still was her mind. Colin remembered Isabelle's sweet, vacant smile, and her morbid rants about "cages" and "collectibles." Her spirit was fractured, warped by a terrifying madness. An enemy with godlike strength and a broken mind was the ultimate nightmare.
A Race Against Death
Seeing Colin sink into a grim, uncharacteristic silence, Hask felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He stepped forward cautiously. "Leader, what do we do...?"
"We have stumbled into a massive trap," Colin said, his voice low and raspy, dropping like a lead weight onto the hearts of his men. He looked up, his piercing gaze sweeping over every warrior present. "The enemy... is monstrously strong."
A simple evaluation, but coming from Colin, it held more terror than any elaborate warning. The canyon fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
"Everyone, move!" Colin's voice suddenly shattered the quiet, rising to a sharp, commanding roar that brooked no argument. "We return to Blackwood Fortress at maximum speed! Now! Immediately! No delays!"
He inhaled the freezing air, the urgency in his chest burning like wildfire.
He had to outrun the clock. The silver-haired Countess hadn't pursued them because she didn't need to; in her eyes, they were mice who couldn't escape the room. She was savoring the hunt, waiting to watch them squirm as the walls closed in.
The human army wasn't just launching random raids for plunder anymore; they were executing a coordinated, highly strategic encirclement to wipe out every demi-human tribe in the sector.
Once their main host surrounded Blackwood Fortress, the game was over. They wouldn't be fighting a few hundred knights—they would be facing thousands of heavily armored, disciplined infantry backed by siege engines. Blackwood Fortress would cease to be a stronghold and become a tomb.
Their only hope of survival was to breach the perimeter before the net closed, and dig in behind the stone walls they had built with their own hands.
"What are you standing around for? Run!" Colin roared.
The werewolves jolted awake, galvanized by the raw desperation in his voice.
"Yes, sir!" they bellowed in unison.
The war machine snapped into motion. The Wolf Riders gripped their reins, guiding their massive mounts through the treacherous, narrow pass. The giant wolves, sensing the gravity of the moment, maintained perfect discipline, suppressing even the faintest whimper.
The journey home had officially become a race against death.
The blizzard screamed around them, filling their lungs with agonizing, icy air, but no one dared to slow down. They pushed past their physical limits, running on pure adrenaline and instinct.
Colin ran at the absolute front, a solitary dark streak cutting a path through the whiteout, leading his pack away from the jaws of the abyss. His heart remained colder than the storm around him. He knew that if they survived the journey back to Blackwood Fortress, a tide of blood awaited them.
And home was still terrifyingly far beyond the horizon.