FL - Chapter 77: Endgame

Dust boiled above the roads, and the thunder of hooves rolled on without pause.

Reinforcements poured into Clearfeather Ridge in wave after wave until the Northlands' main army took control of the line. Soldiers pitched camp and fortified the mouth of the valley with watchtowers, trenches, and arrow towers. They even hauled catapults and heavy ballistae into position. In a matter of days, the crude Snowsworn outpost became a true northern bastion.

And the Snowsworn, of course, had no intention of simply backing down.

They sent small elite units out of Ice Sea County to raid by night, start fires, and sever the supply lines. Some even launched curse-shells at the fortifications. Every attempt failed. The raiders were either discovered in advance or lured into an ambush and wiped out.

Gibson ran a watertight defense, maneuvering his troops and arranging his formations with near-perfect precision. Yet he knew why he had stayed one step ahead at several crucial moments. It was not some stroke of military genius on his part. The credit belonged to the baron drinking tea in the rear camp.

Louis had surrendered tactical command the moment Gibson arrived. He had already earned more than enough merit; anything further would merely gild the lily. Preserving his own strength mattered more. He spent his days sunning himself outside a private tent in the rear camp, then brewed tea and wrote reports at night, looking more like a retiree than a commander.

Not that he had stopped entirely. He still offered Gibson the occasional subtle suggestion, guided by the Daily Intelligence System. Once, when Gibson was racking his brain over where the enemy might strike from, Louis casually pointed at the map and said, "This mountain path. They might come through here in the next few days."

"How do you know?"

"Intuition."

That very night, a two-hundred-man enemy unit came down that exact route. They never even reached the main defensive line—ambushed and wiped out to the last man.

After that, Louis occasionally warned Gibson about an enemy tactic before it appeared. Every prediction came true. Gibson could no longer dismiss the instinctive respect taking root in him. In his eyes, Louis had become a born prodigy of war.

The fighting around Clearfeather Ridge soon stabilized. Short of manpower, the Snowsworn launched weaker attacks with each passing day. Their final assault broke before it had even formed its ranks. However bitterly they resisted, they had no strength left and could only retreat north, step by step.

Clearfeather Ridge, the throat of the Northlands, was secure at last.

……

Snowhawk City could hold out no longer.

After a month under siege, the Snowsworn soldiers were starving, their faces gaunt and yellow, their limbs weak. Even the war-wolves had wasted to skin and bone, padding soundlessly across the snow. There was no food left—and no one else left to eat. For weeks, not a living soul had remained in the city beyond the Snowsworn themselves. Flesh had become their only sustenance, and charred bones lay heaped around the cookfires beneath the walls.

This was not an army. This was a pack of wild beasts driven mad by despair.

Barnes stood atop a ruined platform, staring at the thick, leaden clouds in the distance. What came back to him was not reinforcements—only an absolute, crushing silence.

He finally understood. No one was coming. The relief force from Ice Sea County had been nothing more than his own fantasy.

So he ordered a breakout.

"Anyone who hesitates—I'll cut them down myself!"

That day, he personally executed two of his own guards who had been preparing to flee. The Snowsworn's morale was briefly jolted by this madness—then shoved straight into a dead end.

They surged out of the city like wraiths, screaming and stumbling as they charged. They had barely made it a hundred yards beyond the gates when the Imperial ambush sprang shut.

Archers on both mountain flanks had long been waiting.

"Loose!"

The arrows fell like a deluge. Cold points rained from the sky. The already-starving Snowsworn couldn't withstand it at all. After only a few steps, their formation shattered. Some threw down their weapons and fled outright.

Barnes was still roaring: "Hold the line! Anyone who backs down—"

Before the words finished, an arrow punched through his thigh. Then his shoulder. His chest. His gut.

He hit the ground like a torn sack and lay in a widening pool of blood. One hand twitched toward the arrows, but his body no longer obeyed him. A dark crimson stain spread across the frozen earth. His lips worked soundlessly as he lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the northern ridge—the direction from which he had awaited reinforcements for an entire month.

He died. Died like a dog.

Without command, the breakout became a one-sided slaughter. The Imperial troops had long since formed their battle lines. Ambush forces on both flanks closed like a rising tide. After three volleys of arrows, more than half the Snowsworn were already on the ground. Those who remained tried to break through, tried to charge—but the warhorses had no strength to run, and the infantry had no speed left. The entire force looked like a swarm of insects struggling in a bog.

They didn't last ten minutes. The Snowsworn force collapsed into total rout.

The Imperial soldiers did not hesitate. Expressionless, they reaped every enemy who still struggled. Blood dyed the earth. Severed limbs and shattered remains lay everywhere. Every step came with the crunch of broken bone beneath a boot.

This was a settling of accounts.

Every scream that had rung through Snowhawk City—someone remembered. Now it was time to pay them back.

Half an hour later, the Imperial army launched the final assault on Snowhawk City. There was no resistance inside. They simply pushed open the ruined gates. Most of the Snowsworn had already died in the breakout attempt. Those who remained had long since abandoned hope.

The Imperial soldiers stepped into Snowhawk City—and walked straight into a vision of hell.

The streets were littered with scorched-yellow bones. Charred wooden houses still smoldered. The air was a nauseating blend of rot and blood. Fury. Hatred. Malice. It all erupted in that moment.

"Kill them all!"

There were no prisoners. No interrogations. The Snowsworn were purged. Completely. Thoroughly.

Snowhawk City, after the battle, was nothing but rubble.

……

The Snowsworn had suffered a catastrophic defeat. The tide of the war reversed overnight.

Aside from Ice Sea County and Snowfall County to the north, where they barely maintained a grip, the Snowsworn were almost entirely wiped out across every other region. Stronghold after stronghold was uprooted. Supply lines were severed. Their main-force units were annihilated one after another.

Clearfeather Ridge lost. Snowhawk City fallen. It all meant one thing: this southern campaign had completely collapsed.

Elder Grom slammed his fist onto the stone table, glaring with fury. "I warned you! I warned you not to be so reckless! That northern witch—"

"Shut your mouth." Hiro stood before the idol, his voice dark as a pit. "You were right. They're too hard to deal with. So now—we accelerate."

"Wh-What… are you planning?" An icy dread crept through Grom's heart.

"As long as the Ancient God of the Frozen Abyss awakens… everything can be resolved." Hiro's voice was soft.

He raised a hand. His personal guards surged forward.

Grom's eyes flew wide. He struggled, but they pinned him down with brutal force.

"Stop! I am an Elder!"

No one answered.

He was hung upside down above the frozen altar, alongside several bound captives.

The sacrifice began.

Blood welled from their eyes, ears, noses, and mouths, pulled free by an unseen force and drawn into the altar's stone basin. Their skin shriveled. Their bones twisted. Soon, only broken, desiccated remains were left.

A low, alien rumble rose from deep beneath the earth.

Something was waking.