The morning following the departure of King Antares and his rescue squad, the camp with filled with heavy tension and activity.
While a portion of the camp held its breath, their eyes drawn constantly toward the distant, imposing shadow of the Godwall where their King had now gone to fight, another faction was consumed by the frenetic, relentless rhythm of preparation.
To survive in this harsh world, the Antmen could not simply rely on their hunts and minimal harvests. They needed trade. They needed the South. And today, the Southern expedition was set to launch.
At the heart of the logistics hub, surrounded by a labyrinth of wooden crates, reinforced iron-bound chests, and massive canvas-covered wagons, stood Lady Sira.
She was a vision of meticulous, obsessive focus.
Her breath plumed in the freezing air, illuminated by the flickering light of the surrounding torches.
In her hand, she held a thick, leather-bound ledger, her eyes darting between the columns of ink and the physical goods being loaded by the workers. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration, a physical manifestation of the immense pressure resting squarely on her shoulders. This was her first voyage to the South as the head of her clan, and she was determined to ensure it was flawless.
"Manifest section four," Sira muttered to herself, her voice tight with anxiety. She stepped toward a massive wagon, pulling back the heavy tarpaulin. "The Celcanes. Are they bound properly? If they are our primary good, I don't want to waste a single one.."
"They are secure, Lady Sira," a worker replied, bowing slightly.
"Strengthen the fortifications on the wagons" she ordered, her eyes narrow. "The way to the south will be rocky and bumpy. I will not lose a fortune to mistake."
Next were the pelts and monster parts. Massive bundles of Frost-Bear and demon wolf furs, thick enough to stop a broadsword, were stacked alongside crates of snake scales, large monster bones wrapped in leather and preserved venom sacs full of potent poison. It was mostly materials got from hunted monsters, a testament to the lethal environment the Antmen called home, and Sira felt the weight of every single coin it represented.
"You are checking the wagons for the twelfth time, little one."
Sira jumped slightly, snapping the ledger shut, and turned to see Velas approaching. The old mage who looked like a man in his early twenties walked with a casual, almost infuriatingly relaxed gait, his robes fluttering gently even though there was no breeze in this part of the camp. His eyes, however, were sharp, watching her with a mixture of amusement and deep, abiding affection.
"I am checking them because if the bindings snap on road, we may lose our materials and make a loss in the south, Lord Velas," Sira retorted, crossing her arms. "The pirates are vultures. If we arrive looking disorganized, if our goods are damaged, they will slash our prices by a third before we even sit down to negotiate."
Velas chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that seemed to chase away a bit of the morning chill. He stepped closer, reaching out to gently tap the ledger in her hands.
"You have verified everything, Sira. I have been watching you for the past hours. The wagons are secure. The goods are fine. The inventory is perfect." His smile softened, his eyes taking on a distant, nostalgic glaze. "You have his carefulness, you know. Your father was exactly the same."
Sira's posture stiffened slightly at the mention of her father. "My father was one of the pillars of the tribe as well a respected merchant. He knew the Southern routes like the back of his hand. He knew the traps and the smiling lords with daggers behind their backs."
"And he was one of my dearest friends before the sickness took him," Velas said softly, his voice losing its usual playful lilt. "I remember a time, a few decades ago when he delayed an expedition south just because he had not reached his goal of beating his own record of goods he could successfully take south."
Sira looked down at her ledger, her fingers tracing the worn leather cover. "I am just trying to honor his legacy, Velas. The King needs this trade to succeed. If he is securing the Godwall for our future, I must secure our economy. I cannot afford to fail."
"And you won't," Velas assured her. "But you must also learn when to let the preparations end and the journey begin. Obsession will exhaust you before you even reach the jungles of the south."
Sira sighed, her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. She looked at the line of twelve massive wagons, all loaded, all secured. "I just... I want to check the axles on the lead wagon one more time. Just to be absolutely certain."
Velas threw his hands up in a dramatic gesture of surrender, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh. "By Antarion, you are as stubborn as a mountain goat. Fine. Check the axles. Inspect whatever you wish. But do it quickly. Yajin is waiting at the gates, and you should know that he doesn't like being late."
At the towering southern gates of the camp, the atmosphere was entirely different. There was no anxiety here, no obsessive checking of lists. There was only the heavy, suffocating weight of martial power and absolute silence.
General Yajin stood at the very front of the gates, a monolithic figure carved from the violent history of his people. The freezing wind howled through the wooden palisades, catching his long, unbound grey hair and whipping it around his shoulders like a ragged war banner.
Unlike the more humanoid features of some of his kin, Yajin was a living testament to a different, more brutal lineage. His skin was a deep, aggressive crimson, a clear and undeniable indicator of the strong Orc blood that ran thick in his veins.
A mountain of dense, heavily scarred muscle. Every jagged white line on his red skin told a story of a battle fought, a beast slain, or an enemy broken.
He didn't wear the heavy, polished plate armor of the standard infantry. Instead, he wore the traditional garb of the Ashfang elite, a thick, hardened leather harness that left his massive, scarred chest exposed to the biting cold, which he didn't even seem to feel.
But it was what stood behind him that truly commanded awe and terror.
Arrayed in perfect, unmoving ranks were one thousand of his personal men. These were not the standard foot soldiers of the Ant King's army. These were the elite of the Ashfang clan, the heavy shock troops, the vanguard of destruction. Like Yajin, they possessed the strong Orc bloodline. They were gargantuan, all of them standing at least 2.4 m, their bodies resembling that of Yajin.
From their necks and waists hung thick, primitive necklaces and belts adorned with the bleached skulls of the beasts they had slain in the battle.
They wore battle skirts made of the thickest, coarsest furs, girded with wide leather belts reinforced with iron studs. Thick, yellowed tusks protruded proudly from their lower jaws, and sharp, jagged fangs adorned their mouths, giving them a perpetually ferocious visage.
Their weaponry was as brutal and varied as the scars on their bodies. There was no uniformity in their arms, only a shared devotion to slaughter.
Some leaned heavily on massive bone clubs, carved from the bones of terror beasts, paired with thick, spiked wooden shields. Others wielded massive iron hammers that took two normal men to lift, great-swords as tall as a a fully grown human, cruel, hooked halberds, and great-axes with double-moon blades. Some carried long, heavy-shafted spears with serrated iron tips designed to punch through plate armor and bone alike.
However, despite the varied offensive weaponry, every single one of the thousand warriors carried a thick, reinforced round shield strapped to their backs or left arms, a testament to their disciplined defensive training.
But what truly made this force terrifying was not their size or their weapons. It was the air around them.
Every single one of these one thousand warriors had achieved the peak of the Master Rank Knight Force. The majority of them had broken through their mortal limits and unlocked their Aura. The sheer volume of raw, condensed martial energy oozing from their bodies distorted the air, creating a shimmering, heat-haze effect in the freezing morning. It was an aura of blood-lust, of violence held perfectly in check by absolute discipline.
These men were the true reserves, the dark contingency plan kept hidden in the deepest levels of the underground settlement. Yajin had trained them personally for the past decade, bled with them, and kept them sharp and ready for battle even in times where there was no direct danger coming for the tribe.
Should they ever attempt to breach the Ant King's lands again, or if any unknown terror rose from the depths, these warriors were trained to fight for that, the last line of defense of the tribe hence they were rarely brought to the surface.
But today, they were back under the open sky for a different kind of war. The South was a place of treacherous politics, greedy pirates, and and monsters would definitely come in their way as well.
Yajin was not taking any chances. He had specifically called up his best for this mission.
In Yajin's mind, one could never be too careful when dealing with missions of this importance. A show of overwhelming, terrifying force was the only language these lands would understand.
With these elites, and the additional three hundred regular Ashfang warriors he had left back to guard the camp, he felt a grim sense of calm. The King was still in the North, dealing the horrors of the Godwall. Yajin worried for him, of course. Antares was powerful, practically a god of war in his own right, but still he was still young and inexperienced. He will come back safely, Yajin told himself, his jaw tightening. He has to. The Kingdom cannot survive without him.
The heavy crunch of boots on snow broke his thoughts.
From the center of the camp, Lady Sira finally emerged. Behind her stretched a long, winding trail of twelve massive transport wagons.
In the normally Kingdoms, such massive wagons would be pulled by Beasts of burden like or tamed armored Drakes for the very heavy stuff. but the ant tribe lacked any type of steed but the Antmen, however, had a biological advantage that rendered animals obsolete.
Strapped into the heavy leather pulling-harnesses of each wagon were four Antmen wearing heavy furs against the cold. They were not the elite warriors, but standard workers and logistics personnel. Yet, even the skinniest, most unassuming among them possessed the raw, terrifying strength inherent to their species.
They leaned forward, their boots digging into the earth, and pulled. Carriages weighing several tons, loaded with heavy monster parts,barrels of midnight flower juice, dried celcanes, and thick pelts, rolled forward smoothly. The Antmen pulled hundreds of kilos each, their faces set in masks of mild exertion, brushing off the physical labor as if it were nothing more than a brisk morning walk.
Yajin watched the caravan approach and come to a halt before the gates. He uncrossed his massive arms, his golden eyes fixing on Sira.
"Finally," Yajin said, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that carried easily over the ambient noise of the camp.
Sira jogged forward, pulling her heavy fur cloak tighter around her shoulders. She looked slightly breathless, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the stress.
"I apologize for the delay, General," Sira said, offering a respectful, measured bow. "I had to ensure that everything was in perfect order and I had personally verify the structural integrity of the wagon to be reviewed and reinforced as you know the roads south are unforgiving."
Yajin grunted, a sound that could have meant agreement or annoyance. He respected her diligence, even if he despised waiting. "The goods and trade are your domain, Lady Sira. The safety of this caravan is mine. I care not how many times you check a wooden wheel, so long as we do not lose daylight."
He looked over her shoulder, his gaze sweeping the camp behind her. "Where is Kael?"
Before Sira could answer, the air above them shrieked.
A sudden, violent vortex of wind materialized fifty feet in the air, scattering the loose snow into a blinding white cloud. From the center of the miniature cyclone, Velas descended. He didn't just land; he drifted down with theatrical slowness, his robes billowing dramatically, manipulating the air currents to cushion his descent until his boots touched the ground without making a single sound.
Yajin rolled his eyes, a profound expression of long-suffering annoyance crossing his scarred, crimson face. He hated wasting time, and he hated show-offs like Velas even more.
"Was the dramatic entrance necessary, Velas?" Yajin rumbled, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his massive great-sword. "Or did you just forget how to use your legs?"
Velas smiled brightly, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his sleeve. "A little theatricality keeps the blood flowing, old friend. It warms the spirit in this dreadefull cold. You should try it sometime, though I suppose you'd just crack the earth and scare the men and children."
Yajin ignored the jab. "I asked about Kael. The blacksmith should have been here to inspect the wagon fittings before we left. It is his duty."
Velas's smile faded, replaced by a somber, heavy look. He sighed, the wind around him dying down completely. "Kael is... occupied. He took over a secluded section of the eastern part of camp and turned it into his own little workshop. He has locked himself inside. He requested specifically not to be disturbed by anyone."
Yajin's jaw tightened. He understood immediately.
Kael was a master of metal and fire, but right now, he was a father suspended in a nightmare. His three sons were missing, swallowed by the Godwall. Antares had gone to find them, but every hour that passed without word was a blade twisting in Kael's gut.
To avoid going mad from the waiting, the blacksmith had retreated to the only place that made sense to him: the forge. The rhythmic, deafening sound of a hammer striking metal was the only thing loud enough to drown out his fears plus Antares had given him more more with the recent monster parts he brought so he would be busy.
Yajin's internal monologue shifted, a wave of deep, unspoken melancholy washing over him.
Velas and Kael. They were his oldest friends. More than friends, they were his brothers-in-arms. Though Yajin rarely showed it, hiding behind his gruff exterior and his stoic, warlike demeanor, he loved the two of them fiercely.
Decades ago, the three of them had fought side-by-side in one of the bloodiest campaigns the North had ever seen. They had shared meager rations in the freezing mud, guarded each other's backs against goblin hordes, and bled for the for the safety of their people.
They had believed, with absolute, unwavering fervor, in one man: the previous King. Antares's father. Lord Alexis Antis.
Yajin remembered the old King. A man of immense vision, but a man who had ultimately fallen on a distant, forgotten battlefield, leaving his tribe fractured and his people vulnerable. The grief of that loss had almost broken the Ashfang clan. It had certainly broken something inside Yajin.
But that was the past. The blood had dried.
Now, he served the son of that man. When Antares had awakened, when he had called the clan leaders to the palace and told them of his plans, Yajin had felt a spark of hope he hadn't felt in years.
He believed in Antares. He believed that the young King was promised to greatness, a greatness that would eclipse even his father's. And Yajin would burn the world down to ensure that promise was fulfilled.
Yajin blinked, pulling himself back from the ghosts of the past. He looked down at Lady Sira.
She stood tall, trying to look imposing despite being dwarfed by the massive warriors surrounding her. She had her ledger clutched tightly to her chest, her jaw set with a stubborn, unyielding determination.
Yajin saw it then. He saw the exact shape of her father's eyes, the same sharp, calculating intellect that had made him the greatest merchant the tribe had ever known. Sira wasn't just a girl playing with ledgers; she was the continuation of a legacy, just as Antares was.
The corners of Yajin's mouth twitched upward by a millimeter—the absolute maximum extent of his smiling capacity. He gave her a slow, deep nod of approval.
"We can now go," Yajin said calmly, his voice ringing with absolute finality.
Velas stepped back, bringing his hands together. He looked at Yajin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He raised a hand to his face and dramatically, with exaggerated slowness, faked wiping an imaginary tear from his cheek.
"Ah, look at them," Velas sniffled loudly, pitching his voice to carry. "My little Sira, all grown up and heading south, escorted by the big, terrifying, grumpy Orc-man. It brings a tear to my eye, truly it does. Try not to frighten the human merchants to death before Sira can take their gold and goods, Yajin!"
Yajin's eye twitched. He knew Velas did these displays specifically because he knew how much Yajin despised them. It was a game they had played for years.
Yajin completely ignored his old friend and rival. He didn't even turn his head. He simply raised his massive right arm, his fist clenched.
"VANGUARD! ATTENTION!"
The response was instantaneous. One thousand massive boots slammed into the packed snow in perfect unison, a sound like a thunderclap that shook the wooden gates. The sheer discipline of the movement sent a shiver down Sira's spine.
This was not Yajin's first time executing an escort mission to the deep South. It was one of his primary duties as the head of protection during such critical economic operations.
Yajin began barking orders, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a veteran commander. He divided his massive force with clinical precision.
"We move in the Compass Formation!" Yajin roared.
The one thousand elite Ashfang warriors immediately began to shift, breaking into four distinct groups of two hundred and fifty men each. They moved fluidly, without confusion, like a single, massive organism responding to a central nervous system.
"Eastern Group! Flank the left ridges! Keep your shields high and your spears ready!"
Two hundred and fifty warriors broke off, marching to the left side of the wagon trail, their iron-shod boots crunching heavily in the snow.
"Western Group! Flank the right! Watch the tree line! If a a single beast come from those woods, you burn the forest to the ground!"
Another two hundred and fifty warriors moved to the right, their great-swords and halberds resting on their shoulders, their eyes scanning the dark, pine-covered slopes.
"Southern Group! You are the Vanguard! You march ahead of the lead wagon! You clear the road, you break the blockades, and you leave nothing alive that stands in our path!"
The rearguard moved to the front, taking their positions with bone clubs and great-axes drawn, their fangs bared against the cold wind.
"And the Northern Group!" Yajin yelled, drawing his own massive weapon—a monstrous, double-edged great-sword that practically hummed with his red aura. "You are with me! We take the rear! We are the wall that nothing breaches!"
The formation was complete. It was a moving fortress of flesh, steel, and discipline. In the very center of this impenetrable square of one thousand peak master rank warriors lay the twelve wagons, the wealth of the North, and Lady Sira in her personal carriage, pulled by four of the strongest antmen workers. She was encased in a shell of absolute, overwhelming violence.
"FORWARD!" Yajin bellowed, his voice echoing off the distant mountains.
The wagons groaned as the antmen leaned into their harnesses. The wheels creaked, breaking the frost that had settled on them, and began to roll. The rhythmic, earth-shaking march of a thousand elite warriors began, a sound that would echo for miles, warning everything in the wilderness that
the Ant King's wealth was on the move, and death marched beside it.
Yajin fell into step at the rear, his eyes already fixed on the distant, hazy southern horizon. The King was fighting his war in the mountains. Yajin would fight his on the road. And he would not fail.
The journey South has officially begun.