The time had come.
At dawn, the gates of Fort Nightfall opened, and the Red Flags Battalion marched.
One hundred wolves padded forward in perfect formation, their massive frames moving with disciplined silence. Their fur—silver, ash, black, and crimson-streaked—caught the early light like forged steel. Each carried a rider clad in black armor marked with the crimson sigil of the Red Flags, the cloth whispering softly in the morning wind.
The rest of the wolves vanished into Daniel's domain, preserved to conserve strength for what was to come.
Daniel rode at the front, posture relaxed, eyes sharp. As the fortress faded behind them, he exhaled slowly.
Just a little more, he thought. A few more cores. A few more essences to feed the domain and the dragon-wolf ants will awaken.
Vorrath stirred faintly within him, hungry.
Once the dragon-wolf ants awaken to chaos… the scale of destruction will shift. The tide will finally turn.
It was not cruelty that guided his thoughts, but inevitability. War demanded evolution. Those who adapted survived. Those who did not became fuel for the next advance.
And his battalion—his beast slayers—would grow stronger in the process.
—
Eseren rode near the center, her posture confident, her eyes scanning the horizon with practiced calm. She glanced sideways and snorted softly.
The Prince of Death rode nearby his expression calm.
Prince Aaren sat straight-backed upon his wolf, a black crown resting atop his head—simple, unadorned, yet radiating authority. In his hand was a long spear of dark silver veined with faint crimson lines, its surface etched with subtle runes that seemed to breathe.
The weapon looked alive.
"Ugh," Eseren muttered, loud enough for him to hear. "So the badass Prince of Death got an upgrade?"
Prince Aaren glanced at her, then at his spear.
"Yeah," he replied evenly. "The last one had flaws. Ever since I got creative with the long spear, it couldn't keep up."
There was no pride in his tone. Just fact.
The battalion laughed.
They all knew it was true.
Though Olga Voge still held more battle points than him, Prince Aaren had become something far more dangerous—a thinking killer. His mastery of the spear had evolved beyond technique into instinct.
Eseren clicked her tongue. "Don't let it get to your head."
"If it does," Aaren replied calmly, "you'll hit it back down."
That earned another round of laughter.
Maria rode past them, her whip coiled at her side. The flexible black weapon hummed faintly with stored force. Her expression was focused, eyes sharp.
The nickname Whip of Death had spread faster than rumours ever could.
And for once, the reputation undersold the reality.
Daniel watched them all from the front, silent approval in his gaze talon in the sky, was keeping watch from all directions with sync shared vision with Daniel the war general.
They weren't children anymore.
They were warriors.
—
As the battalion neared the frontline war camp, the atmosphere shifted.
The land bore scars—trenches half-filled with blood and mud, shattered siege weapons, scorched earth where demonic fire had passed. The air smelled of iron, rot, and lingering fear.
Injured soldiers turned as the wolves entered the camp.
Gasps rippled outward.
Armor scraped as men leaned forward, eyes wide. Some whispered prayers. Others stared openly, unable to hide their awe.
"Just what kind of monster," one soldier murmured, "can make beasts like those obey?"
The wolves moved past them without a glance.
Unbothered.
Unchallenged.
Among the pack, life had already asserted dominance. Many of the female wolves had given birth during the march toward readiness. Daniel's new rule had spread through the domain like law itself—only the strongest alpha male would breed.
Strength refined strength.
Every wolf present now carried bloodlines sharpened for war.
They were ready.
—
Daniel stopped before the largest tent at the heart of the camp.
The command tent.
Five figures stepped out almost immediately.
Quin, son of General Ragna, stood tall and rigid. Stevvin, lean and sharp-eyed, rested a hand on his sword. Clauss folded his arms, studying Daniel openly. Brute Arm's massive frame loomed beside them, scars crossing his skin like trophies.
And General Boils scowled openly.
One of them—Boils—spoke first.
"So this is it?" he scoffed. "The king's miracle? A hundred riders and some oversized dogs?"
Daniel did not react.
He reached calmly into his storage ring and withdrew several pills, each glowing with soft, steady light. Without a word, he tossed one to each general.
They caught them reflexively.
"These are cleansing pills," Daniel said evenly. "You're acting this stupid because demonic mana has been rotting inside your bodies for months."
Their expressions stiffened.
Before any of them could respond, the air trembled.
Hooves thundered across the camp.
An elderly man clad in royal colors rode forward, unfurled a scroll, and read aloud in a clear, unwavering voice.
"By decree of His Majesty, King of the Realm. All frontline generals and their battalions are hereby ordered to retreat immediately. Preserve your forces. Leave behind the intact command tents and fortifications. The Red Flags Battalion assumes control of the frontline henceforth."
Silence fell like a blade.
The generals' minds raced.
Retreat?
For a hundred men?
Soldiers nearby murmured in disbelief.
Then someone noticed the crown.
Aaren.
A black crown atop his head.
"My prince," a wounded soldier whispered, eyes wide. "What's happening?"
Aaren turned slowly.
"Do as the king wishes," he said coldly. "And stop acting like children."
The sharpness in his tone stunned those around him.
Brows rose.
Whispers spread.
The Prince of Death was not a rumor.
He was real.
And he was not gentle.
—
Arguments died unspoken.
Orders were given.
Camps were dismantled with desperate efficiency. Carriages rolled out heavy with wounded and weary men.
As the last battalion prepared to leave, Daniel stepped forward.
"I respect your courage," he said calmly. "You held the line when anyone else would've broken."
The generals hesitated.
"But I need you to go home," Daniel continued. "Recover. See your families. Heal."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"From here on, this battlefield belongs to us."
The last carriage rolled away.
The frontline was silent.
Daniel stood beneath the darkening sky, wolves circling behind him, the Red Flags Battalion forming ranks without being ordered.
He looked ahead—to the demon-held lands, to the approaching storm.
His voice was quiet, but it carried.
"Set the camp."
The wolves howled.
And the war took a breath.