Groln and two other tribal orc warriors rode frost wolves out of the forest and stopped on a slightly elevated slope.
His face was sullen, full of anger and irritation. The traps they’d often sneer at as “little toys” and “rat tricks” had cost the legion significant obstacles and casualties, even causing some frost wolves to hesitate, afraid to step on unseen snares.
They had spent nearly an hour longer than expected just to get out of that cursed wood.
“Damn rats!” Groln spat a glob of foul phlegm onto the snow, his gaze landing not far away.
There lay a tundra blanketed in deep snow, the white reflecting a harsh glare under the gloomy sky. In the center of the tundra stood a lone wooden-and-stone post station.
He could clearly see a few wildlings riding large lizards bolt out the station’s back door and continue fleeing southward into the snowy wood.
Orcs who had doubted whether more traps lay ahead could not restrain themselves at the sight.
The sight of fleeing prey and their flight posture stoked their primal lust for plunder and slaughter. Even the frost wolves beneath them let out excited howls, pawing at the snow.
Although his instincts told Groln this was likely another of the sly wildlings’ bait-and-trap setups, letting the prey slip away again was unacceptable.
He had to catch those rats, and wash his shame with their blood and screams.
“Wolf riders!” Groln raised his massive warhammer and pointed toward the post station and the fleeing wildlings, roaring, “Pursue them! Tear them apart!”
Dozens of frost-wolf cavalry roared, tightened their grips, lashed their rough reins, and drove their mounts down the slope. The wolves’ powerful limbs churned huge plumes of snow, moving at alarming speed.
But Groln himself held his wolf back, not rushing down at once.
A remaining caution kept him in the relatively safe center of the legion. Even if the tundra held traps, he could observe the situation and respond in time.
However, as the wolf riders crossed what seemed to be flat tundra, a white, thick fog suddenly billowed up and within a blink cloaked the entire tundra.
Visibility plunged; whenever orcs were more than two or three meters apart, their companions’ figures blurred and soon vanished into the white haze.
“Damn! Magic!” Groln’s heart clenched; he realized this was bad.
He didn’t have time to ponder how the wildlings could cast such a wide fog spell. He tightened the reins, restraining the restless frost wolves, and shouted with all his might, “Halt! Hold your positions! Don’t scatter!”
“Damn it, I told you to stop!” Groln flew into a rage, cracking his leather whip and lashing a panicked orc rider nearby.
But it was too late.
A piercing shriek suddenly rang from the depths of the fog, followed by a chorus of screams and curses.
Blinded by the fog, the orcs flailed like headless flies, repeatedly triggering buried traps in the snow. Iron brambles from deep pits pierced their paws or bodies, sharpened wooden spears or stone fragments hurled from the mist struck them.
Invisible enemies and falling comrades spread panic like a plague through the legion.
“Hurl spears!” Groln’s eyes were bloodshot as he barked orders and himself pulled a short spear from beside his saddle, heaved it hard toward the general direction of the post station.
The spear sliced through the fog with a shrill whistle, prompting several orc foot soldiers and riders to start flinging their weapons toward the station as well.
For a moment, the chorus of slicing projectiles temporarily suppressed the attacks coming from the station’s direction.
Meanwhile, the legion’s only two Silver frost wolves threw back their heads and howled, their cries carrying a primitive force.
[Wind Creation Technique]
A breeze radiated outward from each wolf.
This wind couldn’t entirely disperse the thick magical fog, but it thinned it somewhat and revealed the glittering formation nodes embedded in the snow around them.
“Smash those glowing stones!” Groln’s eyes sharpened and he bellowed toward the nodes.
Nearby orc soldiers, at his command, swung their weapons and smashed the exposed Gray Gravel Crystals protruding from the snow. As each node was destroyed, the energy supply sustaining the fog formation was cut, and the mist began to fade visibly.
Minutes later, the fog finally cleared, exposing the tundra’s brutal scene.
The pristine snow was stained with vast dark red splotches. Dozens of orc soldiers and more than a dozen frost wolves lay in pools of blood—some impaled by spikes in pits, some pierced by wooden spears or enchanted stone arrows.
Among them were some elite orc warriors.
If not for shamans in the ranks casting spells to block some of the ranged attacks, their losses would have been even worse.
Groln’s face was ashen, his chest heaving with rage. He saw the post station’s back door wide open. The last pack of wildlings, mounted on swamp monitor lizards, charged out and fled headlong into the southern snowwood without looking back.
“Pursue them!” Groln swung his warhammer and roared.
The remaining frost-wolf cavalry were roused to ferocity and answered with howls, urging their mounts forward with tightened reins. The frost wolves gave chase with fierce cries.
[Ice Surface Technique]
Two Silver frost wolves led the charge. Where their legs touched the ground, sheets of hard ice sprang up, shielding the surface from potential traps.
They chased the swamp monitor lizards into the denser southern wood, but the terrain there was far more complex—deadfall, rocks, and concealed gullies were everywhere.
And the wildlings were clearly intimately familiar with it. Coupled with the orcs’ lingering fear of more traps, they couldn’t match the swamp monitor lizards’ speed through the tangled terrain.
Beside Groln, an older shaman spoke gravely, “Lord Groln, this chase won’t work. It’s time... to use the magic granted by the Returner.”
Groln didn’t hesitate. He quickly produced a piece of dried meat from the lining of his leather armor and tossed it to his restless frost wolf.
The powerful wolf seemed to instinctively crave the meat, leapt up, seized it in its jaws, and swallowed it down.
Then it began to shake, silver fur bristling as it let out a long howl. The air around it chilled rapidly and countless tiny ice crystals condensed, swirling like stars around it.
[Ice Spear Technique]
The circling ice crystals rapidly condensed and enlarged, then formed into hundreds of sharp ice spears that shot toward the fleeing wildling group.
And not only Groln’s wolf—several other wolves that had been fed similar meat underwent comparable transformations.
“Frost wolves that can cast Ice Spear?!” Molok clung to the rough ridge on the swamp monitor lizard’s neck to steady himself as the lizard bucked. He glanced back and felt his heart stop.
He saw wolves transformed by the meat, like they had ascended to Silver rank, acting as mobile magical batteries unleashing spells.
The ice spears flashed deadly brilliance through the thin forest light.
“Molok, are we going to die here?” Jiggu trembled, curling into Molok’s arms, its round gel body quivering.
If not for Molok’s habitual deference calling it “teacher,” no one would believe this was a Slime warrior.
Ice spears screamed in, and though most missed because of distance and tree cover—slamming into snow or trunks and exploding into clouds of ice shards—several dangerously grazed the lizards or wildlings, and the chill winds they generated were bone-piercing.
One giant lizard’s hind leg was grazed by an ice spear, flesh ripped open, blood gushing, it let out a pained roar and slowed noticeably.
Molok hurriedly raised his hand and shouted, “Teacher Jiggu, let’s surrender now!”