Every breath Colin drew into his lungs felt like inhaling shattered knives.
The cold of the Northlands did not merely freeze flesh—it invaded bone marrow, gnawed at nerves, and clawed at the soul itself.
He pulled the massive black bear-fur cloak tighter around his shoulders. The thick pelt could stop arrows and dull blades, yet before the endless malice of winter, even such protection felt laughably thin.
Snow had fallen for three days and three nights without pause.
The heavens had erased the world.
Blackwood Fortress—once alive with roaring furnaces, marching soldiers, and the noise of thousands—now lay buried beneath a crushing ocean of white. Towers became pale ghosts. Roads vanished. Walls merged into the land like sleeping giants beneath a funeral shroud.
The wind screamed across the wasteland.
Everything else was silent.
This…
This was the true North.
And Colin loved it.
He loved the suffocating stillness.
Loved the danger hidden beneath the endless white.
Loved the instinctive tension tightening inside his veins.
For months, stability had dulled the edge of his nerves.
Now winter sharpened them again.
Deep beneath his human soul, the wolf blood stirred violently.
Awakened.
Hungry.
Alive.
He did not remain inside the command hall beside warm charcoal fires, listening to reports while generals pushed markers across maps.
No.
A king who only ruled from behind walls would eventually become blind.
So Colin walked personally through the kingdom he had forged with blood and iron.
Only Mo followed behind him.
The giant wolf had grown monstrous over the past year, nearly as tall as a warhorse now. Its silver-white fur blended perfectly into the storm, its enormous paws making almost no sound upon the snow.
Together, man and beast crossed the frozen fortress.
—
The first stop was the wall.
The colossal second-phase defensive wall stretched across the land like a slumbering white dragon. Thick snow covered the battlements, arrow slits, and unfinished towers, softening their shape while somehow making them feel even more imposing.
Colin walked slowly along the hardened patrol path.
Fresh snow constantly buried the route faster than the Snow-clearing Shock Troops could clear it.
Every fifty paces stood crude watchtowers built from timber and stretched hides. They groaned beneath the blizzard like dying ships at sea.
Inside one tower stood two werewolf sentries.
They were back-to-back, spears clenched tightly in stiffened fingers, eyes fixed upon the endless white beyond the walls.
Frost covered their beards.
Their eyelashes had frozen solid.
Every breath became clouds of mist.
The snow beneath their boots had been stomped flat as iron from endless unconscious movement to keep blood flowing through numb limbs.
When they noticed Colin approaching, both men jolted upright.
"Divine Envoy!"
They tried to salute.
Colin raised a hand.
"No need. Report."
The older sentry swallowed hard before shouting over the wind.
"No abnormalities! Aside from the storm, nothing moves out there! Even ghosts would freeze to death tonight!"
Colin nodded quietly.
He understood.
This blizzard was Blackwood Fortress's greatest shield. Any army foolish enough to march through such weather would die before reaching the walls.
But Colin saw deeper than the snow.
He saw purple lips.
Cracked skin.
Exhausted eyes.
He saw warriors slowly being consumed.
A year ago, the Broken Fang Tribe possessed only a pathetic ring of sharpened stakes for protection. Back then, even lighting an extra fire at night was a luxury.
Now they had towering walls.
Disciplined soldiers.
Order.
Civilization.
It was a miracle forged from nothing.
Yet Colin felt no satisfaction.
Because he understood something others did not:
Passive defense was still a form of slow death.
Every hour standing against the storm consumed strength.
Every patrol drained stamina.
Every freezing night eroded morale.
If winter lasted long enough…
The enemy would not need to attack.
The cold itself would kill them.
Silently.
Patiently.
Inevitably.
Without a word, Colin removed a flask of strong ale from inside his coat and handed it to the sentries.
"Drink sparingly."
The two soldiers stared at him in disbelief.
Then gratitude exploded across their frostbitten faces.
Colin turned away before they could speak.
—
The second stop was the residential district.
Rows of standardized wooden homes stood beneath heavy blankets of snow, their roofs wearing thick white crowns like something from a dream.
Warm orange light glowed behind ice windows.
For a moment, the fortress no longer resembled a military stronghold.
It looked like home.
Colin intentionally avoided the cleared roads, instead walking through deep snow between narrow alleys.
And there he saw life.
Real life.
Inside one house, a werewolf mother shoved a steaming Earth Potato into the hands of her hungry son while scolding him for trying to wipe grease onto his new clothes.
Inside another, several fox-women sat weaving colorful feathers and polished bones into decorations for the gathering festival, their fingers dancing skillfully in the firelight.
Warmth.
Laughter.
Peace.
A year ago, these same people had hidden inside caves like starving animals.
Now they had homes.
Food.
Purpose.
Children no longer cried themselves to sleep from hunger.
A powerful sense of achievement rose in Colin's chest.
This was his kingdom.
Built by his hands.
Forged through war.
Bought with blood.
Yet even as pride emerged—
Cold logic crushed it instantly.
Smoke rose endlessly from chimneys.
Every flame consumed charcoal.
Every meal consumed reserves.
Every peaceful day devoured resources at terrifying speed.
Thousands of mouths.
Thousands of fires.
Thousands of lives depending upon shrinking stockpiles.
Lena's reports flashed through his memory.
Food reserves declining.
Fuel reserves falling faster than projected.
Warning lines approaching.
The peace before him was beautiful—
But fragile.
A temporary illusion floating atop dwindling supplies.
Once reserves ran dry…
Winter would transform this warm town into a graveyard.
—
The third stop was the blacksmith district.
Before Colin even arrived, waves of heat slammed against him.
The roar of furnaces shattered the silence of winter.
Inside the massive forge complex, dozens of apprentices hammered glowing iron without pause, stripped to the waist despite the freezing weather outside.
CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
Each strike exploded into showers of sparks like bursts of molten stars.
This place no longer resembled a blacksmith shop.
It resembled the beating heart of a war machine.
At the center stood Gerber.
The dwarven grandmaster looked utterly possessed.
He hunched over a cluttered workbench surrounded by twisted experimental alloys, failed weapon prototypes, and pages of frantic calculations.
His bloodshot eyes burned with obsession.
No longer satisfied with ordinary steel, the dwarf was pursuing something greater.
Stronger.
Sharper.
Deadlier.
A year ago, Colin's tribe fought with broken blades and sharpened sticks stripped from corpses.
Now they possessed standardized weapons, organized production lines, and industrial-scale forging capabilities.
An army was being born.
Not a tribe.
Not a raiding band.
An army.
But armies consumed resources faster than monsters.
Metal.
Coal.
Leather.
Food.
Everything required more.
Always more.
—
The fourth stop was the livestock grounds and military training fields.
Elk stood among the beast pens distributing the final reserves of precious winter fodder to pregnant females with fanatical precision, protecting every animal as though they were sacred treasures.
Nearby—
The training grounds thundered with violence.
Hask and Barton had not allowed winter to weaken the army.
Instead, they turned winter itself into a weapon.
Wolf Fang Legion soldiers marched through knee-deep snow while maintaining perfect spear formations despite the freezing winds.
Meanwhile, the Boarman Shock Legion engaged in utterly savage cold-resistance training.
Half-naked boarmen rubbed snow across each other's bodies while roaring like beasts challenging the heavens themselves.
The sight was brutal.
Primitive.
Magnificent.
A few months ago, these warriors had been starving slaves barely strong enough to swing pickaxes.
Now they radiated killing intent powerful enough to shake armies.
Everything had changed.
Everything had improved.
Any ruler witnessing such transformation would feel overwhelming pride.
Would celebrate.
Would finally relax.
But Colin could not.
Because he carried knowledge from another world.
And history had taught his people one eternal truth:
Comfort breeds weakness.
Civilizations do not die only from invasion.
They rot from complacency.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Fatally.
—
Night fell.
Colin returned to the command hall.
Yet he did not light the fire.
The room remained freezing cold.
He needed the cold.
Needed it to strip away emotion.
Needed absolute clarity.
Before him stood the enormous military map painstakingly created by Anna's fox scouts.
Mountains.
Frozen rivers.
Hidden tribes.
Migration routes.
Enemy territories.
Every known force surrounding Blackwood Fortress.
Colin stared at the map in silence.
Then the images began assembling inside his mind.
The freezing sentries.
The burning chimneys.
The hungry furnaces.
The dwindling fodder.
The soldiers consuming strength merely by surviving winter.
Everything connected.
Everything converged toward one unavoidable conclusion.
Suddenly—
Colin's eyes ignited.
Not with fear.
Not with worry.
But with excitement.
A dangerous excitement.
The kind that appeared before great wars.
"We're thinking too small…"
His voice was barely above a whisper.
Then he smiled.
A cold, terrifying smile.
Winter was not merely a disaster.
It was opportunity.
The snow forced beast herds together.
It weakened rival tribes.
It froze supply lines.
Destroyed weaker settlements.
Created chaos.
And chaos…
Was where predators thrived.
Colin's hand slammed onto the map.
BOOM.
Mo lifted his massive head instantly.
The wolf's golden eyes gleamed.
"We hunt."
The words echoed through the freezing hall like a declaration of war.
Not a simple hunt for meat.
Not small patrols gathering supplies.
No—
A Great Winter Hunt.
A full military operation.
An organized campaign across the frozen wilderness itself.
They would hunt beasts.
Seize resources.
Destroy weakened tribes.
Expand territory.
Test the army.
Strengthen morale.
Feed the fortress.
Prepare for spring conquest.
If winter wished to devour Blackwood Fortress—
Then Blackwood Fortress would devour winter first.
Colin's gaze swept across the map like a king looking upon future battlefields.
The fire in his eyes burned brighter than any forge.
Outside, the storm howled louder.
But now—
It no longer sounded like a threat.
It sounded like war drums.
Winter had not yet ended.
And yet—
Blackwood Fortress had already begun its next campaign.