The absolute zero mist clinging to the battlefield slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind a frozen graveyard of shattered ice and perfectly impaled Terror Wolves.
The wind howling through the battlefield seemed to quiet down, as if the sheer pressure of the two powerhouses standing and arguing.
King Antares stood with his hands on his hips, looking anywhere but at the man standing in front of him.
"Do you have any idea the panic you caused at the Godwall?" Yanrid demanded. The general's voice was deathly quiet, yet it carried over the icy clearing with the sharp, cutting edge of a winter gale.
"One moment you are sleeping, and the next, the sonic boom of your departure left snow and worry in the cave. No orders. No warning."
Antares winced slightly, kicking a frozen clump of mud with his boot. "I felt the danger looming over the camp. I had to do something."
"And you couldn't spare two seconds to tell me?" Yanrid stepped forward, the ice crunching beneath his boots. His white hair whipped wildly around his face. "I am one of your Generals, Antares! My sworn duty is to protect you, and yet I am forced to chase your trail across half the land like a lost hound because you decided to play the lone hero."
Antares finally looked back at his friend. The adrenaline of the battle was beginning to fade, and behind his sovereign facade, the King looked incredibly tired.
"Calm down, Yan," Antares said, his voice softening, lacking its usual commanding thunder.
He gestured to the surrounding carnage. "I'm not dead. We secured the camp. Look around. If I had waited or even wasted time explaining my departure, Kael and Velas would be corpses right now. I say it's a good thing we got here in time before the wolves completely breached the camp and made their way to the tribe's settlement underground."
Yanrid stared at his King.
He looked at the massive, beheaded body of the Lycan King pinned to the sky by his own ice spikes, and then at the unconscious, broken bodies of their comrades bleeding in the snow.
The general's jaw clenched tightly, but the oppressive, sub-zero killing intent slowly began to recede. Yanrid closed his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh that plumed in the freezing air.
As his anger faded, the violent magical transformation that had overtaken him began to reverse.
The snow-white color drained from his curly hair, replaced by its natural, deep raven black. When he opened his eyes again, the terrifying, ethereal blue glow had completely vanished, leaving behind his usual, dark, calculating gaze.
"I hope you don't pull another stunt like this, Your Majesty," Yanrid muttered, though the deadly edge was gone from his voice.
"Can't make promises that I won't keep." Antares said smiling
Before he could get more on Yanrid's nerves, a sharp, crystalline ping chimed directly in his mind, entirely separate from the physical sounds of the battlefield.
Directly in Antares's field of vision, a semi-transparent screen of glowing blue holographic text materialized out of thin air.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Alert: Cataclysm-Class Threat Neutralized.
Target: The Lycan King (Evolved Monster).
Status: Terminated.
Congratulations, Host. You have successfully slain an Evolved Monster of the highest regional tier. The hive's domain has been secured.
Antares didn't flinch. He simply read the floating text with tired, indifferent eyes.
[SYSTEM PROMPT]
Massive Experience and Unique Materials have been allocated to the Sovereign's Vault.
Would you like to view your rewards now? [Y/N]
With a mental flick that required barely a fraction of a thought, Antares dismissed the glowing screen. The blue holographic box shattered into a million tiny pixels of light that faded into nothingness.
Later, he thought. Now is not the time to sift through spoils.
"General Yanrid," Antares said, his voice shifting back into the formal, commanding tone . "Recall your ice. We still have work to do."
Yanrid nodded once.
He snapped his fingers, and the massive, towering spikes of ice that had impaled the Terror Wolves instantly shattered, dissolving back into harmless water and washing over the muddy earth.
The survivors of the battle who had been watching the exchange with bated breath, immediately sprang into action. The battle was over, but the grim labor of the aftermath had just begun.
Under Yanrid's immediate coordination, the soldiers began moving through the carnage. They worked in solemn, exhausted silence. The wounded were triaged on the spot, hoisted onto the shoulders of their uninjured comrades, and rushed toward the camp enlarged infirmary.
But the heaviest task was honoring the dead.
Antares walked slowly through the center of the camp. The massive bonfires had been relit, casting long, flickering orange shadows against the canvas tents. In the center of the camp, near the largest fire, a clearing had been made.
One by one, the bodies of the fallen Antmen were carried into the light.
They were laid out in perfectly straight, respectful rows. Armor that had been shattered by claws and jaws was carefully pieced back together over their chests. Weapons were placed respectfully at their sides.
Finally, thick, pristine white cloths were draped completely over their bodies, hiding the horrific wounds that had claimed their lives.
Antares stood at the head of the rows, his travel hood pulled back. The firelight danced in his eyes as he looked over the sea of white shrouds. There were too many.
A scribe, his hands shaking slightly from the cold and the adrenaline, stood beside the King with a heavy leather-bound ledger and an ink quill.
"Record every single name," Antares ordered softly, his voice carrying clearly over the crackle of the flames. "I want the name of every soldier lying here etched into the archives of the tribe.
When the settlement is secured, their families are to be brought forward. They will be honored, compensated, and elevated for the absolute sacrifice their sons and daughters made today. No one who bled for the Ant tribe will be forgotten."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the scribe whispered, furiously scratching ink onto the parchment.
While the dead were honored, the living fought a different kind of war inside the main medical tent.
The large canvas pavilion smelled sharply of sterile herbs, boiling water, and raw copper. Antares pushed through the heavy flaps, stepping into the chaotic heat of the triage center.
Kael and Velas had been given absolute priority.
The Blacksmith lay on a reinforced iron cot. A half-dozen antman medics were frantically working to carefully strip away the shattered remains of his massive obsidian armor.
Beneath the plating, Kael's body was a canvas of horrific bruising. His right shoulder was heavily bandaged, soaking through with fresh blood, and his breathing was shallow due to his fractured ribs. Yet, despite the catastrophic physical injuries, Kael's natural durability was fighting back.
Yes he was unconscious but stable.
Two cots down, Velas looked far worse.
The Mage was pale as a ghost, completely stripped of his regal aura. His chest rose and fell in a fragile, terrifyingly weak rhythm. Medics were continuously cycling warm, mana-infused water over his chest to try and soothe his burned internal circuits.
"Report," Antares demanded, stepping up to Velas's cot.
The chief medical officer, a weary Antman whose apron was soaked in blood, bowed quickly. "They will live, Your Majesty. Commander Kael's injuries are severe, but they are flesh and bone. He will heal in time. Lord Velas..." The medic hesitated. "His mana circuits were nearly completely incinerated. If you hadn't stabilized his mana heart on the field, he would have died within the hour. We have stopped the internal bleeding, but he will not wake for several days, perhaps longer."
Antares looked down at two of his oldest commanders. The absolute pillars of his army, both broken and unconscious in the snow. He reached out, briefly resting a hand on Kael's uninjured shoulder, before turning away.
"Keep a constant rotation of healers on them both," Antares commanded. "If their condition worsens by even a fraction, you wake me."
Antares finally stepped out of the suffocating heat of the medical tent and into the freezing night air.
He had pushed himself to the absolute physical limits. He flown from the Godwall for two days straight without stopping, burning through vast reserves of his own mana to break the sound barrier and reach his men in time.
Now, the adrenaline was gone. The crash was hitting him like a physical blow. His limbs felt like lead, and a dull, throbbing headache had taken root behind his eyes.
Yanrid found him standing near the edge of the camp, staring out into the dark tree line of the Stagfall Forest.
"The perimeter is secured, Your Majesty," Yanrid reported smoothly, slipping back into his role as a general. "I will keep patroling with the uninjured warriors just in case. The dead are recorded, and the wounded are housed and the rest of the men are resting and You need to rest as well your majesty."
Antares didn't argue. "I am leaving the management of the camp to you for the night, Yanrid. Wake me only if the sky falls or if a dragon attacks."
"Understood. Rest well, Your majesty."
The King's personal tent had already been erected near the command center. It was a massive, heavy canvas structure, warded against the cold. Inside, a fire radiated a comforting heat, and a simple, sturdy cot awaited him.
Antares unbuckled his heavy travel cloak, letting the ruined, blood-stained fabric fall to the floorboards. He unclasped the scabbard of Eos, resting the golden blade carefully on a nearby table.
He didn't bother taking off his armor. He was too tired.
He collapsed onto the cot, staring up at the dark canvas ceiling.
The battle was won, but the war was far from over. The sudden, organized aggression of the Terror Wolves and the emergence of an evolved Lycan King were massive red flags. This wasn't a random monster migration. Something had driven them here.
His thoughts drifted south. Far from the frozen peaks of the Godwall and the bloody mud of the Stagfall Forest, Yajin and Lady Sira were currently leading their party to go and honor their trade agreement with the Red beard pirates.
The rescue team at the Godwall should be back soon, Antares thought, his eyelids growing incredibly heavy.
Yajin is strong, but Sira... I hope she is keeping him from doing anything harsh.
The King's breathing slowed. The crackle of the fire and the distant, muffled voices of the camp patrols blended into a steady, rhythmic hum. The physical toll of his two-day flight and the clash with the beast finally pulled him under.
Antares closed his eyes, his mind heavy with the weight of his crown, the survival of his people, and the ominous mysteries waiting in the south, and he finally fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.