Chapter 150 – Clean Sweep
Flaming arrows streaked through the sky like meteors tearing through darkness. Mixed within a dense storm of fire-tipped shafts, they arced overhead before plunging down in deadly descent.
The sharp whistle of their flight blended into a furious, unified roar—like a swarm of hornets surging through a forest. Under that violent hum, the blazing rain descended toward the countless black "stamens" clawing their way out of the snow.
A wight in shredded black rags burst from the frozen crust, skeletal limbs still clotted with snow. The moment it emerged, its twisted, rotting face contorted as it lunged toward the living ranks ahead.
It made it only a few steps.
One luminous arrow struck it at an angle, piercing clean through its open mouth.
The downward force was tremendous, and the flame bound to the shaft ignited instantly. Fire exploded from within its skull and throat, racing outward. Dry sinew and grease-soaked flesh caught at once—flames erupted from its neck and devoured its emaciated body in seconds.
And it was not alone.
All around, other wights were hammered by the descending rain of fire. They staggered and writhed, unable to advance. Silent, ghastly screams filled the air as one after another transformed into grotesque human torches, burning wildly against the white snowfield.
---
A brief system prompt flickered before Charles's eyes.
He blinked, momentarily stunned.
Then he glanced at the wight he himself had shot—now rolling across the ground in a frenzy of flame.
"…So they're immune to blinding effects. Fine," he muttered. "But not even a drop?"
He had expected something—some residual gain, some energy, some trace of reward.
Nothing.
With a faint shake of his head, he lowered his bow.
Let the soldiers handle it.
The firestorm was already doing its work.
He already knew that the so-called Power of the Long Night devoured the spiritual essence of its victims before animating their corpses. But he hadn't expected the consumption to be so thorough—so absolute—that nothing usable remained.
Not even a trace.
Beside him, the red priestess noticed the flicker in his expression. Mistaking it for concern, she spoke softly.
"There are only a few hundred of them. And you detected them early. Against our army, they won't cause much trouble."
Charles gave a noncommittal shrug.
She wasn't wrong. There were only two to three hundred wights. At first, the troops had faltered at the sight of corpses clawing out of the snow. But once they realized the enemy's actual numbers, order quickly returned.
They had prepared well.
Not only dragonglass weapons—but large stores of fire arrows.
And now those preparations were paying off.
Facing disciplined volleys and already exposed from their snowbound ambush, the scattered undead had no chance. They were disorganized, few in number, and completely outmatched.
The final wight collapsed in flames before it ever came within ten meters of the front line.
The army paused briefly to regroup, then resumed its march.
Blackened corpses littered the pristine snow, each riddled with arrows. Soldiers stepped carefully among them, wary.
But the wariness now leaned more toward caution than fear.
Fear came from the unknown. And when the unknown was burned down in front of you, again and again, dread quietly receded.
Some of the braver soldiers even lingered, studying the charred remains with open curiosity.
Charles did not stop them.
Confidence would serve them well in what lay ahead.
---
As they advanced deeper across the white expanse, wights continued to emerge at intervals—half-human, half-animal horrors clawing up through snowbanks. But under Charles's True Sight and the army's relentless assault, the relatively small waves were merely targets.
They pushed onward.
With each engagement, the two-thousand-strong force grew more seasoned. Experience accumulated. Composure solidified.
Casualties decreased.
Yes—casualties.
Though the undead assaults were limited in scale, the column was long. Charles couldn't detect every hidden threat in real time. Even identifying disturbances beneath the snow crust required effort—he relied less on direct sight than on subtle irregularities in snow distribution.
More than once, wights burst up from directly beneath marching boots.
In such chaos, losses were unavoidable.
The fallen were burned where they lay. There was no time for mourning. The mountain loomed closer with every step, and all thoughts bent toward reaching it.
---
Still, the closer they drew to their destination, the more unsettled Charles became.
"So many wights," Jon Snow muttered beside him, equally wary. "If they charged all at once, they'd cause real trouble. But instead…"
"It's like they're bait," Charles replied lightly. "Leading us forward."
He wasn't blind to the pattern.
The White Walkers were intelligent. Luring the army toward a prepared trap was entirely plausible.
The question was—how?
"A trap around the mountain itself?"
As the base of the slope neared, Charles made his move.
He deployed the "forlorn hope."
Yes—a suicide squad.
Before the campaign began, he had prepared carefully. In addition to forging dragonglass weapons, he had secretly cast a modified substitution spell upon twenty-plus soldiers—an evolved sacrificial safeguard.
If things went wrong, they would be the ones sent first.
Not true cannon fodder—the spell might yet preserve their lives—but undeniably at greater risk than the rest.
The chosen soldiers, having witnessed the spell's prior effects, did not hesitate. They advanced ahead of the main force, probing the snow with long wooden spears and branches.
Only after the vanguard confirmed safety did the rest of the army proceed—repeating the process step by painstaking step.
Every movement was steeped in vigilance.
Yet even as they began climbing the slope, no enemy appeared.
No sign of the encirclement Charles had glimpsed through the heart tree vision.
In fact, as they approached the mountainside, even the intermittent wight attacks ceased entirely.
"The Great Other cannot be this limited," the red priestess murmured, unconsciously stroking the ruby at her throat.
But hours passed—and she said nothing further.
---
Cautiously, they climbed toward the sealed cavern halfway up the mountain.
Then—
A thunderous roar erupted below.
All heads turned at once.
Snowfields collapsed outward in a ring.
An enormous sinkhole burst open around the mountain's base—an immense circular chasm encircling the entire hill.
From above, its interior appeared a deep, abyssal blue. Blackness swallowed its depths; no bottom was visible. Perfectly ring-shaped and vast in scope, it isolated the mountain like an island in a sea of white.
And it was wide.
Too wide.
Even from a distance, it was clearly no less than ten meters across—far beyond the reach of a simple bridge.
The army was surrounded.
Trapped upon the mountain.
Charles stared at the colossal barrier now sealing them in.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
Was this some legendary forbidden spell?
Since when were the White Walkers capable of something like this?