When the first blade of dawn broke through the iron-grey sky above Giant Bear Ridge, the world below was already awake to war.
The pale sunlight fell like a sharpened sword, slicing across endless snowfields and igniting the mountain basin in a cold, silver glow. What had once been the quiet heart of the Wolf God Temple was no longer a sanctuary—it had become a forge of beasts and men.
Wolf howls rose and fell in layered echoes. The heavy tread of werewolf warriors shook the frozen ground. Steel scraped against bone and leather as axes and spears were drawn, their edges flashing like frozen lightning.
Overnight, the basin had transformed into an army encampment carved into ice and fury.
And yet, victory always demanded its price.
"Food."
That single word fell into the silence like a meteor.
Colin did not move, but the air around him changed.
Hask stiffened.
For a moment, even the wind seemed to hesitate.
"How much dried meat remains?" Colin asked, his voice calm—too calm, like still water over a deep abyss.
Hask's grin vanished.
"Chief… what we brought was meant for three months. At this rate… three days, at most."
Three days.
The number hung in the air like a death sentence.
Not enemies. Not blades. Not cold.
Hunger.
The true predator of every army.
Hask's voice turned rough with strain. "Nearly a thousand warriors are consuming more than expected in this cold. And the five hundred newly surrendered Snow Giant Wolves—they require stability through meat, or they won't hold their submission. Sporadic hunting won't sustain this."
Colin's gaze swept across the camp.
Werewolf warriors sat sharpening weapons, their eyes burning with restless hunger beneath their fanatic loyalty. Nearby, the newly surrendered wolves paced and watched, their instincts barely chained by fear and obedience.
The wind carried the smell of emptiness.
Colin exhaled once.
Then he made his decision.
He summoned Hask, Barton, and the former Wolf King—now called Icefang.
"Our supplies will not last," Colin said.
No panic. No hesitation.
Only certainty.
Icefang stepped forward.
Its icy-blue eyes locked onto Colin's. Then, slowly, it turned its massive head toward the northeast valley.
A place buried in memory.
A place of abundance.
Water. Grass. Herds.
And survival.
Icefang growled once—deep, decisive.
It had chosen.
Colin smiled faintly.
"Then we take it."
His voice fell like thunder.
"All forces. Move."
The camp erupted.
A roar answered him—wolves howling, warriors shouting, steel ringing.
The army moved.
Not as scattered factions—but as one hunting organism.
The Hunt Begins
The expedition stretched across the snowfield like a living storm.
Wolf riders moved ahead like pale ghosts, scouting through frozen winds. Boar warriors hauled sleds loaded with supplies, their breath steaming like furnace smoke. Behind them, three hundred werewolf warriors began forming bonds with their new wolf companions—half beast, half soldier, still learning what it meant to move as one.
Colin rode at the center, atop the massive black wolf Mo.
Above them all, Icefang led.
Then it stopped.
The air changed.
Blood.
Thick. Fresh. Massive.
A scout's voice trembled. "Chief… herd ahead. At least a thousand. Giant-Horned Ox."
And then they saw it.
A black ocean.
Thousands of towering beasts filled the valley, their curved horns like a forest of steel. Each breath they exhaled became mist. Each step shook the frozen earth.
A living wall of muscle and horn.
Even seasoned warriors felt their instincts tighten.
But Colin's eyes burned brighter.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"This is it."
He raised his hand.
"Split into eight units. Strike from all sides. Break them. Scatter them. I want chaos."
His voice cut through the wind.
"Hask—crush their movement. Spears. Javelins. No hesitation."
"Barton—bind what you can. We don't just kill. We harvest."
"Wolf riders—be the blade. Tear them apart from within."
Then—
"Begin."
The world exploded.
Blood on the Snow
Eight waves of wolves surged into the herd.
Silent at first.
Then sudden violence.
The Giant-Horned Ox herd collapsed into panic as flanks were torn open. Wolves struck like falling shadows, biting, slicing, disrupting the massive formation from within.
Warriors followed, spears piercing through chaos, dragging down beasts too slow to escape.
Boar warriors roared as ropes flew through the air, wrapping horns, anchoring giants that should not be anchored.
The battlefield became something else entirely.
Not war.
Not hunt.
A storm of survival.
Oxen charged blindly, crushing anything in their path. Wolves were flung into the air, only to return again. Warriors were thrown, trampled, dragged—but still they fought.
Blood steamed on the snow.
Steel rang against bone.
The sky filled with sound.
And Colin watched it all like an emperor watching a world being rewritten.
Hours passed.
Then silence began to creep in.
One by one, giants fell.
Not conquered.
Broken.
By exhaustion. By chaos. By impossible coordination between beast and man.
When the final horned beast collapsed into the snow, the valley no longer looked like a battlefield.
It looked like a slaughterhouse carved by gods.
Victory and Hunger
The sun dipped low.
Crimson light spilled across the snow like spilled blood.
Bodies lay everywhere.
But so did life.
Three hundred and fifty-seven living oxen remained—bound, subdued, breathing heavily beneath watchful guards.
The survivors were not just prey.
They were future food.
A roar erupted from the army.
Victory.
Relief.
Release.
But Colin did not celebrate.
Because the hunt was not finished.
A warning howl tore through the air.
Sharp. Urgent.
From the outer perimeter.
Colin turned instantly.
Mo surged forward.
And then they heard it.
Hooves.
Not heavy like oxen.
Light. Fast. Endless.
A silver flood burst through the trees.
Thousands.
No—more.
Frost-Horned Deer.
A migrating storm of living light.
Their crystal antlers shimmered under the dying sun like fragments of frozen stars. Their movement was so fast they left afterimages in the air, a phantom river flowing across the snow.
The battlefield fell silent again.
Even exhaustion forgot itself.
Hask whispered, stunned, "That many… they're fleeing something."
Colin's eyes narrowed.
Then lit up.
Greed. Strategy. Possibility.
The hunt was not over.
It had evolved.
He slowly raised his hand once more.
"Prepare."
His voice was no longer tired.
It was hungry.
"Phase two begins."