Homeward - Buuuu! Dong- Dong- Dong- Dong-!
In the dead of night, chaos erupted in the camp.
The blare of horns pierced the night air, and urgent drumbeats roused the soldiers and tribesfolk from their sleep.
"Assault! It's an assault!"
"Hell wolves!"
Tension and fear mingled as the soldiers shouted the same words over and over.
"Where's the kid—no, the lord?"
"He went out with the captain."
"The company commander?"
"Him too."
The camp was currently without its top commanders.
With no choice, the veterans stepped up as squad leaders, organizing groups of ten. Gunther was among them.
"What the hell's going on?"
Gunther asked the veterans.
"No idea, fuck. The watchman on the watchtower spotted a pack of hell wolves."
"Who knows what's happening. Shit, my head."
Soldiers grabbed their weapons while others clutched their heads, staggering from hangovers. No one seemed to know the full situation.
"Waaah—"
Frightened children burst into tears, and women clutched them close, casting anxious glances around.
Gunther reassured the tribesfolk before racing up to the watchtower where the horn had sounded.
"What'd you see?"
"There. Over there, see?"
The night watchman pointed.
It was a cloudy night with dim moonlight. Whatever was out there in the distance couldn't be made out clearly.
"Isn't that just some dry brush?"
"Look closer. Lights—red lights."
"……."
Something was lurking on the hill, but the torchlight made it hard to see precisely. Just vague silhouettes.
"Wh-what are they doing?"
"Shh."
Gunther tossed the torch from the watchtower outward. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the beasts arrayed on the hill.
"Ah."
He let out a low groan.
The worst enemies at the worst time.
"How... how is that even possible?"
A dozen or so hell wolves. Their gleaming eyes.
If he were the only one seeing things, the watchman wouldn't have blown the horn.
"Gunther! What do you see!? Hell wolves for sure!?"
One of the veterans who'd rallied the soldiers shouted from below the palisade.
Gunther dragged his index finger from the corner of his mouth down his cheek in a long slash. Then he spread his index and middle fingers before clenching his fist.
The signal for hell wolves—minimum twenty or more.
"Fuck. Palisades up, palisades! Arm up!"
"Those mangy mutts are back! Not a single one gets away this time!"
With Gunther's confirmation, the veterans bellowed grimly, and a warlike tension swept the camp in an instant.
Soldiers who'd been half-asleep shook themselves alert as if doused with cold water, grabbing their weapons and snapping to attention.
"Give the women, kids, and elders whatever you've got!"
Daggers, clubs, wooden spears—anything—was handed to the tribesfolk. They grabbed the soldiers from their tribes, piecing together the situation, then paled and gripped their makeshift weapons tight.
"Wh-what about the young master? The lord?"
Hans asked a snub-nosed veteran.
The veteran's nose was red—probably from heavy drinking the night before.
"……Shit."
This was the soldier who'd personally schooled the cheeky Hans with his fists not long ago, after Hans snapped back at mockery over the manure work Isaac had ordered.
"The young master will come back, right? From the Black Forest? He's not the type to die in a place like that."
"……Just arm yourself properly, you little shit."
Red-nose lightly smacked the back of Hans's head and tightened the sloppy leather belt around his waist.
"He'll be back. Carlson's there... and Bessimer too."
Hans's voice trembled slightly.
"He'll live. The kid's nicknamed the Frost Devil for a reason. Devil's homeland? Hell, right? So hell wolves are just the guard dogs there."
"……."
"You said you got a kid?"
"……."
"Whether it's your boy or the lord's kid, if you wanna see 'em alive, protect your own neck first, got it?"
Red-nose slapped Hans's cheeks a couple times.
"Grab your sword. Unless you wanna die pointlessly."
"……."
Hans sheathed his scabbard between his belt with a dazed expression. His fingertips trembled faintly.
This was his first real brush with death in battle. It dredged up nightmares from that day.
"Who knows? Maybe that devil kid rides in on a hell wolf? Ha, fuck, that'd be pretty damn cool."
"……."
Red-nose meant it as a joke, but Hans didn't react.
Red-nose glanced at him, then dashed off to join the soldiers erecting the palisades.
"They're coming, coming!"
Gunther yelled.
"Faster, faster, move it!"
"Hustle, you rookies!"
"If you don't wanna die, put your backs into it!"
Soldiers shouted amid the clamor, swarming the palisades.
"Archers assemble! Archers!"
Under the veterans' orders, archers with longbows and crossbows lined up about ten paces from the camp entrance.
Zigzagging palisades lay before them.
The archers loaded bolts and nocked arrows.
This was their first major battle with the wolf king himself leading, but they'd repelled plenty of hell wolf packs before.
The differences? No Bessimer. Half or fewer troops. Tribesfolk to protect.
That was it.
"Three in the lead! Two hundred! One-fifty!"
"Fuck."
Longbow archers sweated coldly, cursing.
Gunther's called distances dropped fast.
But only three charging? Weren't there over twenty?
The archer who'd seen Gunther's signal wondered, then shook his head.
No time for that.
Archers were just soldiers who could loosely shoot.
In the end, it always came down to brutal melee.
But if Lady Luck smiled, maybe one arrow hits a hell wolf's eye.
They clung to that slim hope—for any edge.
Crossbowmen already aimed past the palisades at the entrance.
"One hundred! Fifty!"
Twang!
Longbowmen drew their strings taut. Nocked arrows strained, ready to fly.
Archers' arms shook.
"Incoming!"
At Gunther's cry, three massive beasts burst into view at the entrance.
Ping—ping!
Arrows and bolts hurtled forward, propelled by bowstrings.
The moment he loosed, the archer knew.
This one's gonna hit.
Veterans of battle developed that instinct. With bow, sword, fist, or shield—at the swing or release, you felt it would land.
That survival-honed sense sharpened with years alive.
The archer's instinct was right.
But hits and direct strikes were worlds apart.
Shing—the sound of a honed blade slicing air.
Carlson batted away one arrow with his sword, while Bessimer snatched a bolt hurtling at Isaac barehanded.
Grrrrowl!
Three hell wolves emerged at the entrance by the braziers.
Only then did soldiers realize something was off.
Over twenty hell wolves, yet no howls or growls.
They bared teeth and snarled only after arrows flew, red eyes flashing hostility.
But even that felt different from the killers they'd faced. Less "I'll rip you apart," more "watch yourself"—a warning.
"Fuck, still half-asleep?"
Red-nose rubbed his eyes.
He'd prophesied the future most accurately from the camp, but never dreamed it'd come true.
Three massive wolves. And atop them—their commanders out on patrol.
Carlson, Bessimer, and Isaac.
Soldiers couldn't grasp if their minds or reality had broken.
Absurdity, taken to extremes, turns men to fools.
"How's this?"
Amid the foolstruck stares, Isaac asked Carlson.
"Still lacking. Needs more polish."
"Top brass is out, and they pull this off. Isn't that decent?"
Bessimer fiddled with the bolt he'd caught barehanded.
Unlike Carlson's dissatisfied scowl, Bessimer seemed inclined to defend the troops.
"What in the world... how?"
As most soldiers gaped at the trio riding hell wolves, Gunther called down from the tower.
Days had passed.
Bessimer and the soldiers no longer needed to hunt magic beasts in the Black Forest.
Thud!
During dawn jogs, one hell wolf dropped a wild boar at the entrance and vanished over the hill.
Soon after, another brought a deer; then one with a rabbit as tall as a man's waist.
"What're you gawking at? Move!"
When the wolves' sporadic visits disrupted the jog lines, Carlson barked.
The hell wolves deposited prey and loped off across the plains like it was nothing.
The next day, one began digging up the frozen earth.
It uprooted blue flowers blooming where manure had been, clawing into the icy ground.
At first, just one. Untrustworthy and menacing, so armed soldiers tailed it in teams of three.
Then two, three. More hell wolves tilled the future fields.
Magic beast meat arrived on demand via wolf jaws; diggers appeared at dawn and returned to the Black Forest by dusk.
Soldiers' wary, hostile stares softened into familiarity over time.
After a fortnight more, fearless tribeskids started pranking the wolves—burying faces in fur, tugging tails, clambering onto backs.
Grrrowl!
The wolves grumbled, but it was mere annoyance—no aggression.
Kids giggled at the reactions; pranks became routine.
Soldiers and women sweated reining in the children.
This awkward scene gradually wove into Binvelt folk's daily life.
"Young master, a letter."
Carlson entered Isaac's tent.
Isaac was immersed in research exploiting his new changes.
Linked mentally to hell wolves, sharing their senses indirectly—his own sharpened dramatically.
Above all, the beasts' instinctive mana circuits opened new horizons.
He knew it all theoretically from magic lore, but experiencing it was another matter.
"Young master."
Carlson called again to Isaac, meditating on his blanket.
"Hoo—"
Isaac exhaled deeply and opened his eyes.
"Schrader, probably. Hand it over."
Isaac took and scanned the letter from Carlson.
"What does it say?"
"The expected bad news, and some unexpected bad news."
The common tongue script was neat—Schrader's hand.
"What's that mean?"
Carlson looked curious.
"Couldn't get draft animals for plowing. Father won't allow horses, and oxen or donkeys are rare not just in Goethe but nearby. They use horses there too."
"Predictable. And the unexpected?"
"Inspectors from the royals."
Isaac folded the letter.
"Inspectors?"
"Yeah."
"Not the old church bishop... over that, I hope."
"Who knows. They send one yearly to check for suspicious signs. Could be routine, or maybe Father gets grilled like you said."
"What'll you do?"
"Schrader reported Binvelt events in rough strokes, looks like. Father's summoning me."
"Everything?"
"Nah. Butler's got sense. But probably the wolf king battle. He wouldn't know I can command hell wolves."
Isaac rose and stretched.
"Gotta hit Bern for smiths anyway."
The wolf king's rune stone let him command hell wolves, but claws had limits on frozen earth.
They needed big plows—quality iron and smiths to forge them.
"Heading home. Prep."
"Yes, sir."
Whoosh—
Carlson left; wind whistled through the tent flap.
Binvelt's barren wastes offered no windbreaks, so gales were fiercer than elsewhere.
Winds sneaking through camp sometimes whistled eerily past objects.
Some called it cries of the dead; others, spirit whispers.
Either way, the sound stirred loneliness.
Maybe that's why.
Suddenly, Isaac craved Yonas's piano playing.