The night grew progressively deeper, a heavy shroud settling over the wilderness.
Fourteen phantom-like figures melted back from the blood-splattered ridge, slipping into the boundless black sea of trees like drops of ink dissolving into dark water. Their return was seamless; not a single resting soldier in the staging area was disturbed.
When Colin's tall, imposing silhouette re-emerged in the camp, the Wolf Rider sentries guarding the perimeter silently struck their breastplates with their fists. They offered their highest respect with their eyes before turning back to face the unknown dangers lurking in the darkness. They didn't need to ask what their leader had seen.
They only needed to believe, and to execute.
Colin walked directly to the center of the clearing. He did not issue immediate orders. Instead, he stood in silence, his sweeping gaze taking in the men leaning against the massive forms of their Snow Giant Wolves or the rough bark of the trees, seizing every fleeting second to recover their strength.
Many faces still bore the hollow exhaustion of a long-distance raid, overlaid with the cold, lingering murderous intent of the brief and bloody ambush they had just executed. Yet, not a single face showed fear. Not a single eye wavered.
They were the sharpest blade and the sturdiest shield in his hand. They were the sole reason he dared to challenge a host of ten thousand with a mere three hundred riders.
Hask, Reze, and two other Centurions stepped forward the moment Colin returned. They could feel the icy, lethal aura radiating from their leader, ten times more intense than before he left.
They knew the hour had come.
"Leader," Hask murmured, his voice a low vibration of suppressed thunder, his eyes flickering with a bloodthirsty impatience.
Colin did not answer with words. Instead, he extended his boot and used his heel to roughly carve a large, irregular circle into the flat, grass-covered earth.
"Here is the enemy's main camp."
His voice wasn't loud, yet it possessed a strange magnetism that instantly commanded absolute focus.
Then, using the scabbard of his heavy sword, he tapped firmly on the northwestern edge of the circle.
"Here lie their supplies and stables. The terrain is open, set apart from the main quarters, and it sits directly downwind from our current position."
Next, he gouged a sharp 'X' into the eastern flank of the circle.
"Here, their perimeter defense is weak, far from the central command, and their patrol rotations are sparsest."
Finally, he drew a long, straight line connecting the supply depot to the main camp—the enemy's natural reinforcement route. In the dead center of that line, he drove the tip of his scabbard deep into the soil.
A stark cross, filled with violent intent, was left branded in the cold earth.
A complete plan for a fire attack and ambush—ruthlessly simple yet engineered to perfection—lay displayed before the four commanders in its most primal form.
Even Reze, consistently steady and calculating, felt a jolt of shock followed by a wave of fanaticism in his sharp, fox-like eyes. He finally realized that Colin wasn't just planning an arson raid. He had calculated everything: the shifting gale, the terrain, the enemy's defensive blind spots, and the exact psychological reactions of a panicked command structure.
This wasn't a reckless charge fueled by bloodlust. It was a textbook tactical strangulation, precisely calibrated to exploit timing, geography, and human nature to their absolute limits.
Colin looked up, his gaze cutting like a winter blade across the faces of Hask, Reze, and the two Centurions.
"My orders are as follows." His voice brooked no argument. "The entire host, totaling two hundred and ninety-six riders, will split into three detachments."
"First Team. Reze."
"Present!" Reze straightened instantly, responding in a harsh whisper.
"You will lead all sixty Forest Trail Cavalry. Your mission is the fire attack," Colin said, his eyes locking onto Reze's lean, weathered face. "You are the swiftest, the most adept at traversing dense woodland, and the most skilled in ranged harassment. I am assigning all the animal fats, oil-soaked linen, and fire arrows we carry to your men."
Colin pointed back to the map. "Use the terrain to infiltrate to the absolute limits of the upwind tree line. At the designated signal, rain everything you have into those fodder mountains and stables. I want a great fire to be the first greeting gift we send them."
"Understood!" A dangerous, predatory light flickered in Reze's eyes. The mission was perilous, high-stakes, and complex—perfectly tailored for the natural hunters of the deep forest.
"Second Team. Hask."
"Leader!" Hask stepped forward, his war blade rattling slightly against his armor in rhythm with his pounding heart.
"You will command one hundred Wolf Riders," Colin commanded, his tone turning grim. "I do not want an infiltration from you, nor do I want a stealth attack. I want the exact opposite."
"The moment the flames erupt and the camp falls into chaos, you will launch a feint against their eastern flank with the most violent, deafening momentum you can muster. Shout, howl, blow your horns, and use your battleaxes to tear down every fence and watchtower in sight."
"Your objective is not to maximize casualties, but to draw their eye. Pin them down. Be a red-hot iron pressed against the beast's flank so that its entire focus shifts to you. Buy the first and third teams the perfect window to strike."
"Roar!" Hask could no longer contain the battle lust surging through his veins. He raised his fist, letting out a low, animalistic grunt of raw power. "Mission guaranteed!"
"Third Team."
Colin's voice dropped back into an icy, unfathomable calm. He looked at the remaining two solemn-faced Centurions.
"I will personally lead the final one hundred and thirty-six Wolf Riders, including my Twelve Wolf Guards. We are the true tip of the spear, and the final reserve."
"We will lie in wait along the reinforcement path I have marked—the throat between the fire and the main camp."
A terrifying, abyss-like murderous intent flashed across Colin's features.
"Our only mission is to hunt."
"We will butcher every commander, every officer, and every elite squad that attempts to rush out to extinguish the fire, or those who furiously charge out to counter Hask's feint. We are a poisoned dagger driven between the enemy's heart and their arm. If they stay still, we remain hidden. If they move, we sever their veins and crush their bones."
"Furthermore, when the time comes, I will personally cover the withdrawal of both your teams."
The deployment was complete. Every cog in the machine was perfectly synchronized, interlocking with the next.
Colin stood tall, his expression turning unprecedentedly solemn as he delivered his final, absolute mandate:
"Listen to me carefully. Tonight, our goal is not annihilation, nor is it occupation. It is to sow the maximum degree of chaos and panic."
"Our advantages are mobility, our intimacy with these woods, and the enemy's utter ignorance of our presence. Therefore, remember these words: Strike when the fire burns; vanish when the blow lands."
"Once your objective is met, no team is permitted to linger. You will break engagement at maximum speed and retreat to the designated rally point. Even if the enemy commander is right before your eyes, even if you are one axe-swing away from taking his head—the moment the signal to retreat sounds, you abandon the kill."
"Those who disobey will be executed on the spot."
The final words hit like heavy iron hammers, driving deep into the souls of the commanders.
"Yes, Leader!"
Hask, Reze, and the Centurions struck their chests in unison, their muffled vows carrying the weight of a blood oath.
The orders spread like wildfire through the staging area, silent and swift. The two hundred and ninety-six riders divided into their respective teams.
Reze's sixty Forest Trail Cavalry began systematically binding heavy, oil-soaked rags around their specialized, barbed throwing spears and arrows. Their movements were fluid and noiseless, akin to priests preparing for a grand ritual of death.
Hask's hundred Wolf Riders drew their whetstones, running them down the edges of their heavy battleaxes and broad-bladed swords for one final check. The glances they exchanged were feral, charged with a fanatical anticipation of violence. Their Snow Giant Wolves seemed to catch the scent of their masters' boiling blood; low, gravelly rumbles vibrated in their throats as their massive claws restlessly dug into the frozen turf.
The third detachment, led by Colin, was the largest and the most unnaturally quiet. The one hundred and thirty-six Wolf Riders, alongside the Twelve Wolf Guards who stood like grim reapers in the dark, simply checked their armor straps in total silence. They rubbed handfuls of freezing snow against their cheeks, using the biting cold to lock themselves into a state of absolute, unshakeable clarity. They were the final, lethal wildcard in this grand gamble.
When all was ready, Colin mounted his great wolf and rode to the front of the host. He offered no grand speeches to stir their spirits.
He simply raised his massive, custom greatsword—its dark steel catching a faint, dangerous gleam from the moonlight—and swung it downward in three distinct directions.
Move out.
Like three lethal currents dividing an ink-black sea, the detachments melted into the bottomless forest, leaving the staging area to the eternal, icy silence of the night.