The night sky over Blackwood Fortress was as thick and dark as a spilled bottle of ink.
In the center of the courtyard, the localized blender of silver blade-light finally ground to a halt. Colin stood perfectly still, his heavy sword angled lazily toward the dirt. A single bead of sweat rolled down the pristine steel blade and fell onto the freshly butchered pavement with a tiny *drip*.
His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic groove. The explosive, terrifying power that had been threatening to blow him to pieces just hours ago was now neatly tucked away, resting like a masterfully forged blade inside a velvet sheath.
He had done it. In record time, no less. He hadn't just gotten used to his new "cheat-code" body; he had seamlessly mapped his god-tier Swordmaster skills right onto it. Now, he could casually crack open a mountain or pick a lock with the exact same hand. It was beautiful, harmonious, and deeply satisfying.
Naturally, the universe couldn't let him enjoy it for more than five seconds.
***WOOOOOOO—! WOOOOOOO—!***
A shrill, frantic horn blasted from the northern wall, slicing through the midnight silence like a rusty saw.
This wasn't the "hey, dinner's ready" horn, nor was it the "we just won" cheer. This was the maximum-severity, red-alert, *we've-got-very-bad-company* alarm.
Colin's muscles, which had just settled into a nice, post-workout relaxation, snapped tight like loaded mousetraps. His eyes went ice-cold. He didn't even bother putting the heavy sword back on the rack; he just gripped the hilt and transformed into a streak of black lightning, sprinting straight for the northern battlements.
---
Behind him, Blackwood Fortress didn't just wake up—it exploded into motion like a kicked hornet's nest.
Doors flew off their latches, windows slammed open, and squads of the Wolf Fang Legion poured out of the barracks. There was no screaming, no running around in circles, and absolutely zero panicking. These guys were professionals. They moved in grim, synchronized silence, hauling weapons and securing defensive grids they had practiced blindfolded a thousand times.
Torches flared to life along the parapets, turning the outer walls from pitch black to bright as day. The heavy thud of combat boots, the metallic clinking of armor, and the low, gravelly barks of officers mixed together into the ultimate heavy metal prelude to war.
As Colin climbed the massive stone stairs of the wall, his steps were pure gravity.
Every warrior he passed—whether a giant Werewolf or a burly Boar-folk—subconsciously threw their shoulders back the moment they saw his calm, unbothered face. They slammed their fists against their breastplates in a silent, universal salute.
> There was tension in their eyes, sure, but beneath it was a borderline delusional level of trust. The general vibe was simple: *As long as the Boss is standing, this wall isn't going anywhere.*
---
When Colin finally reached the top of the eight-meter-high wall, a biting northern gust smacked him in the face, carrying the faint, metallic tang of distant blood.
A Wolf Rider scout was kneeling in front of Hask, looking like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward—and then run over by a wagon. His leather armor was shredded, his helmet was gone, and a nasty, fresh gash nearly split his weathered face in two. He was wheezing like a broken pair of bellows.
Hask looked up, his expression grimmer than a tax collector's. "Leader," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "Wuka made it back. He brought the headline."
Colin gave a sharp nod, stepping past Hask to look at the battered scout. "Speak."
"Lea... Leader..." Wuka blinked through a haze of crusty blood and exhaustion, a spark of hope returning to his eyes the moment he saw Colin. He forced the words out of his raw throat: "They're... they're coming."
"The human army. Their vanguard just crawled into the 'Wind-Crying Pass.' That puts them about fifty miles out." Wuka took a ragged breath. "They aren't messing around. Highly disciplined. Scouts, forward elements, main body... a textbook synchronized march. Their advance scouts are lethal; I barely outrun them because my mount, Black Wind, has an extra gear..."
Wuka's eyes darkened with sudden, raw hatred. "And... tailing their main army... there's a massive swarm of Slave-hunting parties. Hundreds of them."
---
Colin's face didn't twitch, but his eyes turned into absolute daggers.
He walked over to the stone embrasure, leaning his hands against the cold, battle-scarred bluestone as he stared out into the empty, moonlit northern horizon.
There was nothing out there but shadows and frost. But with his heightened senses, he could practically see the nightmare rolling in.
* He could see the human army—a massive, grinding machine of steel and banners, slowly rolling south with unstoppable inertia.
* He could see the opportunistic slave-hunters hanging around the edges like jackals, burning peaceful villages and turning free people into property.
* And right at the front of that massive parade, under the fluttering banners of the black Night Kite, he could visualize *her*. The Countess. Silver hair, pale skin, and those icy blue eyes brimming with that trademark, psychotic blend of morbidity and madness, smiling like she'd already won.
A phantom chill crept up Colin's spine.
But instead of shivering, he just let out a slow breath and tightened his grip on his sixty-eight-catty heavy sword.
His body was calibrated. His fortress was locked and loaded. The moment his knuckles went white on the leather grip, a volcano of pure, unadulterated confidence pumped from his heart straight into his veins, vaporizing the chill instantly.
The northern wind howled louder, slamming into the stone walls of Blackwood Fortress like a chorus of angry ghosts. The storm was finally here.
And Colin was more than ready to break it.