Dawn never came to the Northlands.
Not truly.
In this season ruled by endless lead-gray clouds, the sun had become nothing more than a forgotten myth. The sky overhead resembled the belly of a dead fish—pale, swollen, and devoid of even the slightest warmth.
The world looked buried beneath a colossal funeral shroud.
And beneath that shroud…
Blackwood Fortress opened its jaws.
The massive fortress gate, forged from black ironwood and reinforced by thick steel bands, groaned like an awakening beast. Under the strain of eight Boar-folk warriors pushing with all their strength, the gates slowly split apart.
CREEEEAK—
The sound was deep.
Heavy.
Ancient.
A narrow opening emerged between the walls, just wide enough for several men to walk side by side.
No horns sounded.
No war drums thundered.
No citizens gathered to witness their departure.
The fortress slept peacefully beneath the snow, unaware that its fate was marching into the wilderness this very moment.
Then the army moved.
Nearly one thousand warriors flowed silently through the opening like a river of shadows.
No shouting.
No unnecessary movement.
No hesitation.
They advanced with the eerie discipline of a colony of ants abandoning the safety of their nest before a coming flood.
One after another, figures disappeared into the swirling darkness beyond the walls.
Until finally—
The last soldier crossed the threshold.
BOOM.
The gates closed behind them.
That final sound represented more than separation.
It meant isolation.
From this moment onward, they were cut off from warmth, safety, and civilization.
Behind them was home.
Ahead of them was only the Snow Kingdom.
A world ruled not by kings or laws—
But by cold.
—
The wilderness welcomed them immediately.
The storm descended like divine punishment.
An ocean of freezing wind carrying billions of razor-like ice particles exploded across the plains and slammed directly into the expeditionary force.
It did not feel like wind.
It felt like an invisible wall made from pure cold crashing against flesh.
The freezing currents pierced through leather armor, wormed through seams, crawled beneath fur linings, and sliced into skin with surgical precision.
The pain was instant.
Violent.
Absolute.
It was not the kind of cold that slowly seeped inward like icy water.
No—
It scorched.
Like invisible fire.
Every warrior's skin erupted with goosebumps the moment the storm touched them. Their breath crystallized instantly into white frost before scattering into the air.
The world itself seemed hostile to life.
And beneath their feet waited the second cruelty of the Snow Kingdom.
The snow reached nearly to the knee.
Heavy.
Thick.
Treacherous.
It did not behave like ordinary snow.
It behaved like a swamp.
Every step required enormous effort just to pull a leg free from the freezing suction below. Worse still, no one knew what hid beneath the white surface—solid ground, concealed holes, or frozen cracks capable of snapping an ankle instantly.
In this kingdom…
Even walking had become warfare.
Yet the army uttered no complaints.
Not a single unnecessary sound escaped the formation.
After only a brief adjustment to the merciless environment, the expeditionary force began moving with terrifying precision.
Like a machine.
A colossal war machine built for survival.
—
The eyes and senses of that machine belonged to Hask and the thirteen Wolf Guards.
They had already vanished ahead of the main force like ghosts drifting across the snowfields.
Their Snow Giant Wolves demonstrated why they were feared as the true rulers of winter.
The beasts' massive paws spread their weight across the snow like sled runners, barely sinking despite their enormous size. Thick layers of natural oil coated their white fur, protecting them from frost while blending perfectly into the landscape.
They did not need sight.
Their noses ruled this frozen world.
A hidden ice fissure hundreds of meters away.
A buried predator beneath the snow.
The faint scent of starving prey hiding in distant dens.
Nothing escaped them.
The thirteen Wolf Guards moved as though fused to their mounts. They crouched low against the wolves' broad backs, minimizing resistance against the wind.
No words passed between rider and beast.
A shift of muscle.
A twitch of reins.
A subtle movement of the knee.
That was enough.
Together, they became silent hunters gliding through the white abyss.
Scouts.
Assassins.
Compasses guiding the expedition across the endless sea of snow.
—
If Hask and his riders were the senses of the army—
Then Barton and the Boar-folk were its unstoppable engine.
Three hundred Boar-folk warriors marched at the front in a massive V-shaped formation.
Like warships breaking frozen seas.
Unlike the wolves, they possessed no natural advantage in snow.
What they possessed instead…
Was brute force powerful enough to crush reason itself.
Each carried massive armor-piercing axes forged by Gerber's furnaces. Their monstrous physiques moved forward with slow but unstoppable momentum, using raw physical power to plow pathways through the snow.
"Heh—!"
"Heh—!"
"Heh—!"
Heavy breaths escaped their throats with every step.
Not exhaustion.
Enjoyment.
The Boar-folk treated resistance itself as entertainment.
Behind them, dozens of specially designed sleds carved through the cleared pathways.
Gerber's engineering genius had created wide-runner supply sleds capable of traversing deep snow while carrying enormous loads.
Food.
Medicine.
Spare weapons.
Tents.
Dried meat.
Hard wheat cakes.
Enough supplies to sustain the entire expedition for more than a month in total isolation.
The sleds were monstrously heavy.
But thick ropes bound them directly to the Boar-folk warriors ahead.
The boarmen were not merely clearing the road.
They were dragging the expedition's lifeline forward using flesh, blood, and terrifying endurance.
—
At the center of this massive moving organism rode Colin.
Not at the front like Hask.
Not within the backbone like Barton.
But at the exact core.
The point from which everything could be observed.
Beneath him moved Mo.
The Wolf King.
A creature so massive and imposing that it no longer resembled an ordinary Snow Giant Wolf, but some mythical beast born from ancient legends.
Snow meant nothing to it.
The blizzard meant nothing to it.
The freezing winds that cut into flesh like blades merely flowed harmlessly through its black fur without disturbing a single strand.
Its existence alone defied the laws of the Snow Kingdom.
Yet Colin himself remained perfectly calm.
His attention was not on his own strength.
It was on the army.
Every detail.
Every rhythm.
Every weakness.
His senses had already merged with the expeditionary force itself.
He watched the subtle flag signals returning from the Wolf Guards ahead.
He observed the marching tempo of the Boar-folk icebreakers.
He monitored the changing expressions of every werewolf soldier within the formation.
He listened constantly.
To the wind.
To the snow.
To the breathing of exhausted warriors.
To the synchronized crunch of nearly a thousand pairs of feet crossing frozen earth.
Meanwhile his mind calculated endlessly.
Distance traveled.
Supply consumption.
Body heat loss.
Stamina depletion.
Future campsite locations.
Potential casualty rates.
He resembled a ruthless chess master engaged in battle against an invisible opponent.
Nature itself.
And unlike ordinary wars—
This was a game where even a single mistake could annihilate everyone.
—
The main body of the expedition marched behind Colin.
Six hundred werewolf warriors.
The blood and nerves of the war machine.
Unlike the Snow Giant Wolves, they lacked natural adaptation to this frozen hell.
Unlike the Boar-folk, they lacked monstrous physiques capable of overpowering the environment itself.
All they possessed…
Was willpower.
Cold tortured them constantly.
White frost coated every face like frozen masks.
Lips turned blue-purple.
Fingers slowly lost feeling.
Every breath burned through their lungs like inhaling knives.
And eventually—
The first warrior collapsed.
A young werewolf stumbled into the snow, his exhausted limbs refusing to obey him any longer.
Panic flooded his eyes.
Because falling behind here meant death.
He tried desperately to stand.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed again.
The snow beneath him suddenly felt less like ground and more like an open grave waiting to swallow him whole.
Then—
Two hands grabbed his arms.
Strong.
Steady.
His companions.
Without speaking a word, the two warriors hauled him back upright and forced him onward, practically dragging him through the snow while maintaining formation.
No thanks were exchanged.
No heroic speeches spoken.
They simply continued marching.
Together.
And soon—
More scenes like this began appearing throughout the army.
One warrior stumbled.
Another carried him.
One lost strength.
Others shared the burden.
This army was no longer merely a military force.
It was a living organism.
Cold.
Cruel.
Yet strangely warm.
A whole that refused to abandon its parts.
—
What kept them moving through this endless white purgatory?
It was the path carved ahead by the Boar-folk.
Proof that someone was bearing the burden before them.
It was the ghost-like Wolf Guards scouting through the blizzard ahead.
Proof that the road was not leading blindly toward death.
But above all—
It was Colin.
That black figure riding atop the enormous Wolf King at the center of the formation.
In this endless white ocean, he resembled the only eternal lighthouse.
Unmoving.
Unshaken.
As long as that black silhouette remained ahead of them…
Despair could never truly take root.
Because every warrior here believed the same thing.
Their King would lead them forward.
No matter how cruel the storm became.
No matter how terrible the future ahead.
He would guide them toward glory.
And so—
In the darkest hour before dawn, the expeditionary force carrying the future of Blackwood Fortress plunged deeper into the Snow Kingdom.
Like a silent steel giant marching into the jaws of death itself.
Behind them lay warmth, peace, and home.
Ahead of them awaited only survival…
Conquest…
And the beginning of the Great Winter Hunt.